-t 


library  of 
Zli^  Uuicersity  of  Hortl]  Carolina 


COLLHCTION     OF 

NORTH    C  A  R  O  L  I  N  I  A  N  A 


ENDOWED      V.  Y 

JOHN     S  P  R  U  N  T     HILL 
of  the  class  of  1889 


This  book  must  not 
be  token  from  the 
Library  building. 


Form  No.  471 


IN  THE 

NANTAHALAS 

A  NOVEL 


BY 

MRS.  F.  L.  TOWNSEND 


N.CL 

4> 


Nashville,  Tenn.;  Dallas,  Tex. 

Publishing  House  M.  E.  Church,  South 

Smith  &  Lamas,  Agents 


Copyright,  1910, 
By 

MRS.  F.  L.  TOWNSEND 


T 
n 


A 

■J 

WHOSE    IDEAL   OF   LIFE   HAS   HELPED    ME  ] 

TO    KEEP   A    CLEAR   VISION,  i 

j 

i  fjoofnglg  ^ehitQte  Ei\\a  look.  i 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  In  the  Nantahalas       ....  7 

II.  The  Motto          .....  16 

III.  A  Boy's  Way 24 

IV.  Linda  at  School  .....  33 
V.  Friends 41 

VI.  Stepping  Stones          ....  49 

VII.  At  Eagle's  Nest          ....  57 

VIII.  A  Rift  in  the  Lute      ....  64 

IX.  Miss  McGregor,  Genealogist.     .         .  74 

X.  The  Cup  of  Pleasure  .         .         .81 

XL  Mountain  Pride           ....  89 

XII.  The  Tie  of  Blood       ....  99 

XIII.  All  for  Love 106 

XIV.  Unrest 114 

XV.  Home  Again 121 

XVI.  Fannie 131 

XVII.  The  Lover's  Coming  ....  139 

XVIII.  The  Reunion 145 

XIX.  Perchance  to  Dream  .         .         -154 

XX.  "As  in  a  Dream  When  One  Awaketh"  165 

XXI.  Concluding      .            ....  177 


PREFACE. 

A  decade  or  more  ago  there  began  to  appear  in  the 
Church  press  fugitive  articles  which  covered  such  a 
wide  range  of  practical  and  living  subjects  and  which 
were  marked  by  such  cultured  wisdom  and  literary 
finish  as  to  move  many  an  edified  reader  to  ask  the 
question,  "Who  is  she?"  This  natural  and,  therefore, 
pardonable  interest  suffered  no  decline  when  the  writer 
was  found  to  be  a  Methodist  preacher's  wife,  who  had 
caught  a  view  of  a  world  much  bigger  than  the  parson- 
age and  the  parish,  and  who  had  demonstrated  her 
ability  to  minister  as  a  true  wife  and  loving  mother  in 
a  little  parsonage  home  and  at  the  same  time  to  make 
the  great  outside  world  better  by  her  thought-product. 

The  reading  public  is  to  be  congratulated  on  the  fact 
that  Airs.  Townsend  essayed  the  ambitious  task  of 
writing  a  book,  and  that  the  book  is  "In  the  Nanta- 
halas." 

It  is  a  story  of  heart-touching  interest  in  which  a 
labor  of  love  and  justice  is  apparent.  It  forms  the 
motif  of  the  book.  The  mountaineers  of  North  Caro- 
lina are  presented  in  their  true  character,  and  not  as  the 
ignorant,  shiftless,  hopeless  people  who  live  in  sensa- 
tional fiction  and  in  the  newspaper  articles  of  the  unin- 
formed missionary  zealot. 

Judge  Jeter  C.  Pritchard,  who  as  United  States 
Senator  reflected  honor  on  his  State,  and  who  is  now 
rendering  distinguished  service  as  Judge  of  the  United 
States  Ciraiit  Court,  is  proud  of  the  fact  that  he  is  one 
of  these  "mountain  whites."  Judge  Pritchard  says: 
"I  have  recently  read  with  much  pleasure  Mrs.  F.  L, 
Townsend's  book  entitled  'In  the  Nantahalas.'  In 
this  book  Mrs.  Townsend  in  portraying  the  character 

5 


in   tfte  Ji5anta!)ala0 


of  the  typical  mountaineer  comes  nearer  doing  our 
people  justice  than  any  one  who  has  heretofore  dealt 
with  the  subject.  .  .  .  We  are  making  wonderful  prog- 
ress along  moral  and  intellectual  lines,  and  this  book 
will  prove  to  be  valuable  in  that  it  places  people  in  a 
proper  light  before  the  country  at  large." 

As  a  work  of  fiction  "In  the  Nantahalas"  is  a  strong, 
artistic  production  in  which  knowledge  of  human  na- 
ture, imaginative  reach,  and  descriptive  power  are  im- 
portant elements.  When  the  last  chapter  has  been  read, 
the  reader  of  the  right  kind  feels  that  he  has  been 
breathing  a  pure  atmosphere  and  has  been  mingling 
with  characters  who  in  their  weakness  or  strength  can 
stir  the  noblest  impulses  of  the  soul. 

Bishop  James  Atkins,  who  has  lived  nearly  all  his 
useful  and  honored  life  among  Mrs.  Townsend's  moun- 
taineers, says:  "The  story  is  one  of  love,  and  is  all 
the  better  for  that.  It  is  not  complicated,  but  sim- 
ple, deep,  beautiful,  ennobling."  These  words  contain 
a  just  tribute  to  the  book. 

In  introducing  Mrs.  Townsend's  book  to  the  public, 
I  have  the  feeling  which  possesses  one  when  he  knows 
that  he  is  introducing  something  good.  I  know  that 
"In  the  Nantahalas"  is  a  real  contribution  to  the  wel- 
fare fund  of  humanity,  and  I  present  it  as  such, 

Thomas  N.  Ivey. 
August  22, 191 1. 


6 


In  the  Nantahalas 

CHAPTER  I. 

IN  THE  NANTAHALAS. 

The  mountains,  in  their  calm  majesty,  lifted  their 
heads  against  the  glow  of  a  sunset  sky\  The  clear  call 
of  a  bird  struck  across  the  still  air.  Red  and  gold 
battled  for  preeminence  in  the  heavens  while  the  valley 
and  the  green  hillsides  bathed  themselves  in  the 
mingled   flood  of   radiance. 

A  young  girl  stood  with  her  face  turned  toward  the 
mountains  of  the  gleaming  West.  Her  arms  were  bare 
to  the  elbows,  and  showed  the  strength  of  healthful 
usage.  In  spite  of  her  simple  calico  dress,  made  with 
no  reference  to  the  latest  fashion,  her  figure  had  grace 
and  charm.  The  face  held  its  own  tale  of  mingled 
sadness  and  sweetness.  The  austereness  of  these 
mighty  hills  sometimes  touches  the  women  with  an 
oppressive  restraint.  The  glad  outflowing  of  buoyant 
spirits  is  alien  to  the  mountain  girl  who  has  kept 
within  her  fastnesses. 

She  had  started  home  from  the  pasture,  and  after 
closing  the  gap  turned  to  look  out  on  the  scene  which 
was  old  and  yet  ever  new  in  its  manifold  beauty. 

A  sound  of  horse's  hoofbeats  along  the  trail  at  the 

7 


In   t6e  Ii5anta|bala0 


edge  of  the  wood  caught  her  attention.  She  turned, 
and  the  light  of  a  quick  smile  brightened  her  face. 

A  bit  of  a  pony,  old  and  shaggy  and  blind  in  one 
eye,  was  coming  up  the  hillside.  Seated  on  his  back, 
in  an  attitude  of  courageous  uneasiness,  was  a  little 
woman  no  longer  young  but  carrying  with  her  the 
everlasting  spirit  of  youth. 

"Wait  for  us,  Linda.    I  have  started  to  your  house." 

"I  am  glad,"  answered  the  girl. 

The  pony  stopped  with  such  suddenness  that  his 
rider  saved  herself  from  pitching  off  head  foremost 
only  by  clutching  fiercely  at  his  mane.  The  lady 
dismounted  and  started  up  the  path,  walking  by  the 
girl's  side  and  leading  her  horse.  "I  think  Bob  is  try- 
ing his  best  to  make  me  believe  in  the  doctrine  I  fought 
during  twelve  long  years." 

"What   doctrine,    Miss   Wells?" 

"The    transmigration    of    souls." 

"Yes'm?"  There  was  interrogation  in  Linda's 
voice. 

"The  Buddhists  think  even  a  woman  may  have  the 
good  luck  to  be  born  a  man  sometime  if  she  keeps  do- 
ing her  best ;  if  not,  she's  likely  to  be  a  cat  or  some 
other  animal.  Bob  behaves  as  if  he  might  be  the 
incarnate  spirit  of  some  contrary  woman.  He's  sure 
to  go  fast  when  I  want  him  to  go  slowly  and  carefully. 
Every  time  I  speak  to  anybody  he  thinks  we're  in  for 
a  long  conversation  and  stops  so  suddenly  that  he 
almost  jerks  my  head  off.  Then  he  never  forgets  to 
try  to  follow  the  path  he  once  trod,  no  matter  how 
anxious  I  am  to  hurry  on.  I  spent  a  night  sometime 
ago  in  Corbin's  Cove,  and  it's  a  pitched  battle  now 
every  time  I  undertake  to  pass  the  road  that  leads 
to  it.  O,  he  is  a  provoking  little  fellow,  but  I  love 
him!" 

8 


In   tbt  i^anta!)a!ag 


The  girl  had  Hstened  attentively.  "You  said  they 
believed  over  there  that  a  woman  might  be  a  man  if 
she'd  do  her  best.  Is  it  that  way  ever'where — the 
women  having  the  hard  time  an'  feeling  that  they  are 
not  as  good   as  the  men?" 

Her  voice  had  a  tone  of  bitterness  that  caused  Miss 
Wells  to  look  intently  at  her.  She  spoke  seriously  in 
answer  to  the  girl's  question.  "That  is  often  the  case 
among  primitive  peoples,  Linda ;  but  I  think  we  have 
the  highest  trust.  Except  where  their  condition  is 
degraded  women  have  the  finest  interests  of  the  race 
in  their  hands — the  spiritual  welfare  of  the  men  and 
women  who  make  a  country's  future." 

"O.  ]\Iiss  Wells,  sometimes  when  I  hear  you  talk,  I 
feel  like  there's  something  to  live  for;  but  when  I  go 
back  to  Aunt  Sarah's  and  see  how  things  are  and  what 
little  good  I  can  do,  I  feel  like  giving  up.  We  are  so 
poor,  an'  there's  enough  to  do  the  work  without  me, 
an'  I  cain't  help  feeling  myself  in  the  way." 

"Dear,  don't  do  that.  W'e  all  have  our  moments  of 
discouragement  when  we  feel  sure  our  work  is  worth 
nothing  to  others.  But  your  aunt  has  talked  to  me  of 
your  helpfulness.  You  are  more  thoughtful  for  her, 
I'm  sure,  than  her  own  daughters  are ;  and  your  in- 
fluence in  the  home  is  for  good — always." 

"Maybe  I  do  help  her  right  smart,  but  I  believe  the 
girls  would  think  more  about  taking  care  of  her  if  I 
wasn't  there.  You  see,  they're  used  to  my  going  ahead 
an'  doing  for  her." 

"How  old  are  you,  Linda,  if  you  don't  mind  my  ask- 
ing?" 

"Eighteen   next  month." 

"Have  you  ever  thought  of  getting  ready  to  do 
work  in  the  outside  world  ?" 

"What  could  I  do.  Miss  Wells  ?    I  cain't  do  anything 

9 


In  tbt  n5antai)ala0 


well.  I  can  cook  a  little,  but  how  could  I  learn  when 
Aunt  Sarah  don't  know  much  an'  we  don't  have  much 
to  learn  with?" 

Miss  Wells  looked  at  her  sympathetically.  She 
knew  that  her  own  help  and  timely  suggestions  had 
been  Linda's  only  lessons  in  wholesome  cooking. 

"Then  I  don't  know  how  to  sew  well.  I  cain't  teach, 
hard  as  I've  tried  to  study  since  you've  been  among 
us.    What  can  I  do?" 

They  had  come  now  to  the  little  home.  As  they  saw 
none  of  the  boys  of  the  household,  the  girl  handed  her 
pail  of  milk  to  Miss  Wells,  put  the  pony  in  the  stable, 
and  shook  down  a  bundle  of  oats  for-him.  The  two 
then  went  around  to  the  kitchen,  where  they  found 
Mrs.  Gentry  preparing  supper.  The  listless,  careworn 
woman  brightened  noticeably  at  sight  of  the  new- 
comer. "Walk  in  an'  set  down  while  I  finish  supper," 
she  said  cordially. 

"No,  Aunt  Sarah ;  I'll  get  supper  ready.  You  go 
right  on  in  the  house  an'  have  a  talk  with  Miss  Wells 
while  me  an'  the  girls  do  up  the  nighty  work." 

"Well,  now,  that's  real  good  of  you,  Lindy.  Send 
Callie  to  the  spring  house  to  git  the  milk  an'  butter, 
an'  tell  Susan  to  put  the  white  cloth  on  the  table." 

"Don't  go  to  so  much  trouble  for  me,  Mrs.  Gentry." 

"That's  all  right.  Since  you've  stayed  with  us,  some- 
how I  don't  feel  right  usin'  a  oilcloth.  It  don't  'pyear 
to  be  clean." 

The  two  went  on  into  what  served  as  hall,  living 
room,  and  bedchamber.  In  one  corner  steep  stairs  ran 
up  to  the  half  story  above.  A  smaller  bedroom  opened 
into  the  larger  one.  The  house  was  shabbily  built, 
poorly  lighted,  and  poorly  furnished ;  but  there  were 
signs  that  some  one  of  the  family  had  an  instinct  for 
beauty.    Flowers  were  placed  here  and  there,  some  of 

10 


In  tfje  laamaftalas! 


them  wild,  others  from  the  yard,  where  a  few  of  the 
old-fashioned  favorites  brightened  the  rather  desolate 
look  of  the  home. 

"I  was  just  thinking  I'd  have  a  talk  with  you  about 
Linda,  Mrs.  Gentry.  If  we  could  arrange  for  her  to 
go  away  to  school,  could  you  manage  without  her?" 

The  youngest  child,  a  girl  of  three,  had  slipped 
quietly  in  and  was  standing  by  her  mother's  chair. 
Mrs.  Gentry  snatched  the  child  up  and  held  her  close 
to  her  bosom.  "I  don't  see  how  I  could  git  on 
without  Lindy,  Miss  Wells.  Do  you  think  I  ought 
to  give  her  up?  It  don't  seem  right  jest  when  I've 
got  her  so  she  can  tek  hold  an'  give  me  some  rest. 
She  can  he'p  with  the  little  uns  so  much  better  than 
the  other  girls,  an'  I  depend  on  her  to  do  all  the  best 
ironin'  an'  right  smart  o'  the  washin'." 

"Yes,  I  know  it  would  be  hard  on  you ;  but  I  think 
you  are  too  good  a  woman  to  stand  in  her  way." 

Miss  Wells  had  touched  the  right  spring.  The 
woman  was  little  used  to  appreciation,  and  this  imput- 
ing good  motives  to  her  stirred  all  her  best  impulses. 
"Well,  of  course  I'd  hate  to  keep  her  jes'  to  please 
myse'f.  It'd  be  sorter  selfish,  wouldn't  it  ?  An'  Lindy's 
such  a  smart  girl  she'd  do  well  wherever  she  goes. 
But  I  have  thought  she  liked  Harry  Turner.  Ef  that's 
so,  maybe  she  wouldn't  want  to  go  'way." 

"O,  she's  too  young  to  know  her  own  mind  about  a 
thing  of  that  sort!" 

'T  don't  know  'bout  that.  Girls  'round  here  marry 
pow'ful  young.  My  first  baby  was  born  before  I  was 
as  old  as  Lindy." 

"But  you  wouldn't  like  for  Linda  or  your  own 
daughters  to  have  the  cares  you  had  at  that  early  age  ?" 

"No,  I  wouldn't.  It  makes  a  girl  old  befo'  her 
time.    Anyhow,  where's  the  money  to  come  from?" 

11 


Un   tht   Ii^anta!)ala0 


'I've  tl^ougbt-ef-+hat.    At  the  Sunday  School  Con- 
vention a^lCullowhee  /a  Mr.  Willingham  was  there  in 


the  interests  Ot'  thejBrevard  Schoolj  I  talked  with 
him,  and  they  are  doing""fifIe"wo>k.  He  told  me  of  one 
girl  who  walked  twelve  miles  to  reach  the  railroad  on 
her  way  to  the  school.  Some  of  the  pupils  pay  full 
rates,  others  help  work  their  way  through,  and  still 
others  are  helped  by  the  different  home  mission  so- 
cieties of  your  Church." 

"Ain't  that  fine  to  give  po'  girls  such  a  chance?" 

"I  spoke  to  him  of  Linda.  Haven't  mentioned  it  to 
her  because  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  first,  and  then  see 
if  there  was  any  chance  to  get  her  in." 

As  a  result  of  this  conversation  Miss  Wells  set 
herself  to  work.  Though  not  a  member  of  the  church 
doing  mission  work  through  the  Brevard  School, 
she  wrote  to  the  leaders  of  the  Home  Mission  Society 
and  secured  their  interest.  Before  long  arrangements 
were  made  by  which  Linda  might  enter  the  school  and 
not  feel  that  she  was  a  beneficiary.  Certain  work  was 
open  for  her,  and  the  President  was  empowered  by  a 
woman  of  means  to  aid  the  girl  in  buying  books  and 
other  necessaries. 

When  the  news  came  to  Linda  that  she  was  to  enter 
this  open  door,  light  flooded  her  soul.  Generous  im- 
pulses throbbed  with  every  heart-beat.  When  the  full- 
ness of  life  was  hers,  how  much  good  she  would 
do!  Aunt  Sarah  and  all  the  children  should  feel 
the  benefit  of  her  uplifted  powers.  These  things 
she  tried  to  express  in  her  grateful  talks  with 
Miss  Wells,  who  caught  her  half-told  meaning  and 
answered  her  in  sweet,  wise  words  that  prepared  her 
for  some  of  the  struggles  before  her  and  still  did 
not  chill  the  glow  of  her  enthusiasm. 

12 


Kn   tbt  ji5antaJ)ala0 


Into  these  hopes  came  no  disturbing  thought  of  the 
young  man  whose  preference  for  her  had  attracted  the 
attention  of  Mrs.  Gentry  and  others.  The  world  lying 
beyond  those  mountain  peaks  promised  so  much  that 
there  was  no  room  in  her  mind  for  girlish  dreams  of 
love. 

The  Sunday  before  she  was  to  leave  for  the  school 
there  was  an  afternoon  service  in  the  little  church 
nearest  the  Gentry  home.  It  was  one  of  Miss  Wells's 
Bible-readings ;  and  here  the  young  people  of  the 
community  gathered  to  listen,  to  question — if  they 
would — and  to  have  their  opening  minds  stirred  to 
thoughts  of  kindness  and  unselfish  service. 

On  leaving  the  church  young  Turner  came  to  her, 
and  the  two  were  soon  passing  through  the  fragrant 
woods  behind  the  other  young  members  of  the  Gentry 
household.  The  girl  talked  brightly.  The  youth  that 
was  in  her  had  waked  to  unwonted  vigor.  At  last  the 
young  man  said :  'T  reckon  you  are  mighty  glad  to  go 
'way." 

"O,  I  am  so  glad  to  get  this  chance  of  goin'  to 
school !  I  hate  some  to  leave  home,  but  I  do  want 
to  learn.  O,  I  am  that  thankful !  Living  seems  like 
it's  worth  something  now." 

"You'll  go  'way  an'  forget  yo'  ol'  friends,  maybe." 

The  youth  was  awkward,  self-conscious,  and  ill- 
developed.  He  did  not  know  his  own  capacities.  His 
simple  round  of  duties  on  his  father's  farm,  a  few  win- 
ter months  of  school,  and  the  narrow  social  life  of  the 
community  had  constituted  his  world.  Yet  the  primal 
feelings  of  manhood  were  his,  and  all  his  strength 
of  brain  and  heart  responded  to  the  charm  of  the  girl 
beside  him. 

"No,  no;  I  don't  intend  to  forget  anybody.    You 

2  13 


M   tht  Ji5anta5ala0 


don't  think  a  little  education's  goin'  to  make  my  heart 
worse,  do  you?  Why,  I  hope  I'll  have  a  better  heart 
an'  mind,  both." 

He  looked  at  her  with  the  humility  of  a  great  love 
shining  through  his  eyes.  "You're  already  so  far 
ahead  o'  me  that  you  make  me  ashamed  o'  mvse'f, 
Lindy." 

"What  makes  you  feel  that  way  ?  I  don't  know  any 
more  in  school  books  than  you  do.  Don't  you  remem- 
ber how  you  used  to  work  my  sums  for  me?"  and  she 
smiled  brightly  in  a  frank,  comrade  fashion. 

"Yes,  but  you  could  beat  me  in  ever'thing  else.  And 
now  that  you've  been  readin'  these  here  books  I  never 
heard  tell  of,  you're  clean  out  o'  sight." 

"Why  don't  you  read,  too  ?  You  know  Miss  Wells 
keeps  books  a-purpose  to  lend." 

"I  don't  know— hardly." 

"I  know,"  and  there  was  a  return  of  the  old  bitter- 
ness which  had  been  in  abeyance  of  late.  "You've 
never  been  made  to  feel  that  you  need  it.  Your 
mother  and  father  an'  ever'body  acts  just  like  a  man 
was  better  than  a  woman,  anyhow.  We're  always 
kept  down,  an'  the  only  way  I  see  for  a  girl  to  amount 
to  anything  is  for  her  to  use  her  eyes  an'  tongue  while 
she's  young  an'  good-looking.  If  she  marries,  there's 
nothin'  to  keep  her  from  bein'  a  slave.  Look  at  Aunt 
Sarah.  She's  just  thirty-eight  years  ol',  and  she  looks 
like  she  was  fifty.  An'  you  know  there  ain't  a  man 
in  the  settlement  that's  not  willin'  for  his  women  folks 
to  go  into  the  field,  besides  doin'  all  the  washin'  an' 
everything."  The  young  man  looked  dumbly  at  her. 
The  girl  went  on  with  an  air  of  defiance :  "O,  I  know 
this  sort  of  talk  is  strange  to  you ;  but  I've  watched 
close,  an'  if  I  never  say  a  word  to  anybody  but  Miss 
Wells,  I've  felt  it.     I  spoke  about  Aunt  Sarah  because 

u 


In   tbt  J^antaftalag 


she's  just  like  the  rest  of  the  women,  I'd  rather  be 
dead  than  Hving  such  a  Hfe."  Her  eyes  flashed,  her 
cheeks  flamed  with  a  rush  of  color.  She  looked  at  the 
young  man  as  if  expecting  resentment. 

He  hesitated,  mentally  pulling  himself  together,  then 
spoke  with  a  touch  of  dignity  that  overmastered  his 
awkwardness :  "I  don't  know  how  much  o'  that  you're 
meanin'  for  me  jes'  to  warn  me  off,  but  I'm  goin'  to 
have  my  say;  then  it'll  all  be  over.  You  cain't  he'p 
knowin'  that  you're  the  only  girl  in  the  world  to  me. 
I  loved  you  when  I  was  goin'  to  school  an'  used  to 
Stan'  next  to  you  in  spellin'  class ;  and,  somehow,  I 
felt  glad  that  it  was  you  that  stood  head  most  o'  the 
time.  Thinkin'  of  you  has  kept  me  straight  all  these 
years.  If  I  ever  felt  like  takin'  a  dram  with  the  boys, 
I'd  stick  it  out  because  you  don't  believe  in  it.  An'  I've 
tried  to  shut  my  eyes  an'  ears  many  a  time  to  things 
that  a  young  fellow  oughtn't  to  know  about — jes'  for 
your  sake.  I  didn't  talk  to  you  about  marryin',  but  I 
couldn't  he'p  showin'  to  ever'body  that  I  was  a  fool 
over  you.  I'm  poor ;  but  I  had  thought,  maybe,  some- 
time you'd  care  a  little,  an'  I  could  wait  an'  work.  But 
feelin'  like  you  do,  it's  the  best  thing  that  you're  goin' 
away.    I'll  not  worry  you  any  more." 

Only  those  who  know  the  contradictory  nature  of 
the  eternal  feminine  can  guess  at  the  workings  of 
Linda's  mind.  The  manliness  of  the  boy's  speech,  the 
self-respecting  spirit  that  animated  it  touched  her  as 
much  as  the  words  of  love.  She  looked  up  at  him,  the 
color  gone  from  her  cheek,  and  spoke  softly:  "I'm 
sorry  if  I  was  rough.  I  do  care— a  little ;  and  if  you'll 
go  to  work  and  make  a  real  man  of  yourself,  I'll  try 
harder  at  Brevard  to  make  a  woman  worthy  of  you." 


15 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  MOTTO.  ^ 

The  east-bound  train  pulled  up  at  Nantahala,  a  little 
wayside  station  whose  sole  interest  lay  in  the  fact 
that  it  possessed  one  of  the  musical  Indian  names  that 
hold  a  charm  for  the  traveler  who  penetrates  the  moun- 
tains of  western  Carolina.  A  horse  and  buggy  stood 
near  the  little  wooden  building  that  served  as  a  depot. 
On  the  platform  were  a  young  girl  and  a  boy  of  fifteen 
or  thereabout.  A  diminutive,  tin-covered  trunk  stood 
on  end  near  the  edge  of  the  platform. 

After  the  train  stopped  the  agent  came  out  of  the 
depot  and  helped  the  girl  on,  telling  the  lad  to  come 
in  with  her  if  he  wished.  "You'll  only  have  two  or 
three  minutes  to  stay.  Maybe  you'd  better  get  off  with 
me,"  said  the  agent  to  the  boy  after  securing  a  seat 
for  the  girl  and  seeing  that  she  was  settled  therein. 

"Good-by,  Lindy."  There  was  no  appearance  of 
feeling  in  the  phlegmatic  air  of  the  lad. 

But  the  girl  held  out  her  hand,  and  tears  came  to 
her  eyes:  "Good-by,  Bob.  Tell  Aunt  Sarah  I'm  all 
right.     She  mustn't  be  uneasy  about  me." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  her.     Take  kyer  o'  yo'se'f,  Lindy." 

"I  will.  Good-by,  Bob.  Take  care  of  yo'  mother, 
an'  don't  let  her  work  too  hard." 

Two  ladies  who  were  sitting  near  each  other  ex- 
changed significant  looks.  "I  like  that,"  said  the  elder 
of  the  two.    "And  do  you  notice  how  pretty  she  is?" 

16 


Kn   tf)e   j^antaijalas; 


"With  development  she'd  be  a  beauty.  Her  hair  is 
wonderful — such  rich,  splendid  gold — and  her  com- 
plexion is  perfect.  Where  did  she  get  those  regular 
features  ?  Ah,  I  would  like  to  have  her  and  a  full 
purse  just  to  see  her  blossom  out." 

"You  would  need  time  also,  my  dear.  The  air  that 
is  necessary  comes  only  by  long  training.  It's  not  so 
much  the  shabby  clothes  that  spoil  her  beauty  as  her 
evident   awkwardness   and   self-consciousness." 

"Anyway,  she  is  a  good  subject  for  experiment.  She 
has  the  look  of  native  ability." 

"I  wish — I  have  half  a  mind " 

"You  might  talk  to  her.  Of  course  you'll  have  to 
find  out  a  great  many  things  before  you  make  her  an 
offer." 

The  older  lady  soon  left  her  seat  and  took  a  vacant 
one  just  back  of  the  newcomer.  Leaning  over  and 
lightly  touching  the  girl's  shoulder,  she  said :  "I  beg 
your  pardon,  but  you  will  allow  an  old  lady  to  be 
sociable.  You  look  so  young,  and  I  suppose  you're 
unused  to  traveling." 

The  lovely  eyes  looked  into  hers  with  a  world  of 
expression.  An  appealing  timidity,  gratitude,  trustful- 
ness shone  from  them.  "I've  never  been  on  a  train 
before" — this  with  a  little  apologetic  air.  "I've  never 
been  away  from  home  except  for  a  day  or  so,  an'  I  do 
feel  strange." 

"You  are  going  away  for  a  visit?" 

"No,   ma'am ;   I've   started   to   Brevard   to   school." 

"O !  Into  that  beautiful  country?  I  suppose  you 
are  accustomed  to  the  mountains ;  but  to  those  of  us 
who  live  in  the  low  countries, 
and  all  up  there  are  dreams  of  lo^ 
Waynesville  and  its  surroundings  are  quite  as  pretty. 
Do  you  know  fWaynesville  F" 

17 


3n   tbt  iaantal)ala$ 


"No,  ma'am;  but  I'm  goin'  to  stay  there  to-night." 

"Ah!  \Ve^rejta-sp£JDd  the  night  the»-e.  Later  we 
will  go  to  |Eagi^Lj\T^est)  IMy  niece  and  I  feel  that  a 
summer  is  lost  if  we  do  not  visit  western  Carolina." 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"My  home  is  in  Savannah,  and  the  hot  weather 
there  is  very  depressing  to  me.  My  physician  hurries 
me  ofif  to  the  mountains  every  year,  and  tries  to  keep 
me  there  till  frost.  I  go  back  stronger  than  when 
I  leave,  and  the  memory  of  all  this  beauty  brightens 
me  for  the  whole  winter.  It's  a  wonderful  country — 
magnificent !  Such  sunsets  as  you  have  in  the  autumn  ! 
I  was  in  the  Eagle's  Nest  through  September  and  Oc- 
tober once,  and  I  shall  never  forget  the  wealth  of  color- 
ing. The  woods  were  in  flames,  and  the  skies  seemed 
to  be  trying  to  outshine  them — such  rich  crimson  and 
gold  sunsets.  I  can't  imagine  more  perfect  beauty. 
But  I  am  letting  my  tongue  run  away.  I  forget  my- 
self when  talking  of  these  things  that  have  long  ago 
become  common  to  you." 

"I  like  to  hear  you."  There  was  absolute  sincerity 
of  voice  and  manner.  "I  don't  know  how  to  tell  what 
I  mean,  but  I  do  love  the  mountains.  They've  always 
seemed  like  ol'  friends  to  me;  an'  a  heap  o'  times, 
when  things  were  wrong,  I've  gone  off  to  myself  where 
I  could  see  the"  Bald 'an'  stayed  till  I'd  feel  better— 
a  little  like  talkin'  to  yo'  mother,  I  reckon." 

"Your  mother  isn't  living?" 

"No'm ;  she  died  when  I  was  a  baby,  an'  my  father 
didn't  live  many  months  longer." 

"And  you've  made  your  home  with  relatives?" 

"Yes'm ;  my  aunt  took  me  an'  raised  me." 

"And  this  is  your  first  experience  in  leaving  home 
to  attend  school?" 

"Yes'm." 

18 


Sn   tbt  Bamai)ala0 


Invited  by  the  lady's  friendly  sympathy,  Linda, 
usually  so  reticent,  told  of  her  struggles  for  an  edu- 
cation— struggles  that  were  half-hearted  till  the  com- 
ing of  Miss  Wells,  a  returned  missionary  from  India, 
who  had  left  her  home  in  Chicago  to  work  in  the 
Carolina  mountains.  She  spoke  with  the  most  grate- 
ful appreciation  of  Miss  Wells's  interest  in  herself, 
of  the  help  and  encouragement  that  friend  had  given 
her,  and  finally  of  the  plan  by  which  she  was  to  re- 
ceive the  year's   schooling  in  Brevard. 

"After  that,  what  next  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  Maybe  I  can  learn  to  do  something 
out  in  the  world — make  a  living  for  myself  an*  be  able 
to  help  Aunt  Sarah  an'  the  children.  That's  what  I'd 
like." 

There  was  something  about  the  young  girl  cal- 
culated to  inspire  confidence.  Her  beauty,  obscured  as 
it  was,  so  appealed  to  the  older  woman  that  it  required 
an  effort  on  the  latter's  part  to  avoid  doing  a  foolish 
thing.  Now  that  her  niece  had  married  and  was 
living  in  a  distant  city,  she  was  on  the  lookout  for  a 
young  girl  to  serve  as  companion  for  herself.  She  was 
inclined  to  try  to  engage  this  stranger,  but  prudence 
interfered.  "I  am  a  lonely  woman,  but  I  have  not 
lost  sympathy  with  youth.  I  love  young  people ;  and 
if  I  can  be  of  any  service  to  you,  won't  you  write  to 
me?"  and  she  opened  her  satchel  to  find  a  card. 

Linda  took  the  card :  "Mrs.  De  Jarnette.  Do  I  pro- 
nounce the  name  right?" 

"Yes ;  we  accent  the  first  syllable  now.  That's  a 
concession  to  the  English  tongue.  It's  French  and  was 
once  pronounced  differently." 

"It's  a  pretty  name." 

"Your  name_is— -Linda,  the  young  man  called  you  ?" 

"LindarCTraham^' 


^l^^t.^1^ 


m  tfie  ii^antaljalas! 


"Then  you  are  Scotch.     Graham  is  a  good  name." 

"I  don't  know  much  about  such  things.  I  reckon  I 
don't  know  much,  anyhow,"  and  the  girl  smiled.  When 
she  did  so,  her  beauty  was  wonderfully  heightened.  In 
repose  her  face  had  a  wistful  look,  as  though  the 
young  spirit  were  looking  out  on  life  with  doubtful 
questioning ;  but  with  the  smile  the  genius  of  youth  and 
hope  asserted  itself  and  glorified  her  face. 

Homesick,  her  heart  aching  for  mother  love,  her  life 
empty  in  ways  she  dimly  realized  but  did  not  under- 
stand, she  was  in  a  mood  to  respond  to  every  kindly 
touch.  The  sympathetic  manner  of  the  lady  had 
broken  down  the  barriers,  and  she  had  opened  her 
heart  in  unwonted  fashion.  When  she  looked  at  the 
well-dressed  woman  who  seemed  so  unconscious  of 
what  she  wore,  a  sudden  shame  possessed  her — shame 
because  of  her  own  shabby  apparel  and  because  she 
could  not  forget  her  clothes.  But  Mrs.  De  Jarnette's 
manner  did  not  long  leave  her  ill  at  ease.  With 
Southern  warmth  she  showed  her  interest  in  every  de- 
tail of  the  girl's  life  and  every  hope  for  her  future. 

Before  they  reached  Waynesville  Linda  was  intro- 
duced to  Mrs.  Scott,  the  elder  lady's  niece,  and  found 
her  so  kind  and  gracious  that  she  began  to  think 
the  outer  world  was  made  up  of  kindness  and  grace. 

At  Waynesville  Linda  looked  about  her  in  bewil- 
derment. She  drew  back  from  her  new  acquaintances 
as  if  she  feared  to  force  herself  on  their  attention ; 
but  the  train  had  scarcely  stopped  before  an  elderly 
lady  came  on,  and,  looking  through  the  coach,  singled 
Linda  out  as  the  girl  whom  she  sought. 

"Miss  Linda  Graham?"  and  a  friendly  handclasp 
followed  the  affirmative  answer.    "I  am  Mrs.  Eccles." 

In  a  few  moments  they  were  driving  toward  one  of 

20 


In   tbt  Bantai)ala0 


the  lovely  homes  of  the  village.  To  Linda  it  seemed 
a  dream.  She  had  never  been  in  a  carriage  before. 
She  was  entirely  unused  to  ladies  who  are  of  the  world 
in  its  best  sense — women  who  have  the  ripe  culture, 
the  beautiful  manners  that  come  only  by  contact  with 
other  fellow-beings  who  have  read,  thought,  suffered, 
and  lived  broadly. 

Mrs.  Eccles  was  one  of  the  leaders  in  the  society 
by  which  the  Brevard  school  was  controlled.  She 
had  become  interested  in  Linda  through  correspond- 
ence with  ]\Iiss  Wells,  and  had  invited  the  young  girl 
to  spend  a  night  with  her  on  her  way  to  school.  She 
found  Linda  answering  her  in  monosyllables ;  and  as 
she  set  her  powers  to  work  to  try  to  get  closer  to  the 
girl,  she  began  to  fear  failure. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  inborn  air  of  the  grande  dame, 
perchance  it  was  the  calm  dignity  which  belongs  to 
forceful  characters — whatever  it  was,  there  was  some- 
thing about  her  that  overawed  the  girl  who  had  just 
opened  her  heart  in  frank  confidence  to  the  emotional 
Southern  nature  of  Mrs.  De  Jarnette. 

After  the  evening  meal  was  over  and  the  two  sat  in 
the  library,  the  talk  turned  to  books.  Then  Linda 
gradually  gave  rein  to  her  thoughts  and  showed  her 
would-be  friend  a  glimpse  into  a  mind  of  rich  natural 
beauty,  though  one  but  ill-developed  because  of  poor 
opportunity.  She  had  read  few  books.  There  were 
none  in  her  aunt's  home  save  the  Bible  and  two  or 
three  volumes  bought  from  agents ;  but  Miss  Wells 
had  turned  over  to  her  use  a  small,  select  library.  A 
half  dozen  novels  of  a  wholesome  sort,  a  few  devotional 
books,  Tennyson,  Longfellow,  and  others  of  our 
English-speaking  poets — these  she  had  read  with 
crude  but  original  insight.     Miss  Wells  had  wisely 

21 


3n   tf)e   jeantaijaias 


forborne  any  pre-criticism,  so  that  the  author's  impres- 
sion on  the  plastic  mind  was  absolutely  genuine. 

After  a  long  talk  in  which  the  girl  had  let  her 
soul,  overbearing  all  timidity,  loose  its  tether  and 
reach  out  after  the  sweeter  and  finer  things  of  life, 
Mrs.  Eccles  went  to  a  shelf  and,  taking  down  a  vol- 
ume, said:  "Here's  a  book  I  want  to  give  you,  Linda. 
I  have  marked  it  myself.  Perhaps  you'll  enjoy  it  the 
more  for  that."  Standing  under  the  arc  light,  she 
read  aloud,  noting  as  she  did  so  the  changing  play  of 
feeling  on  her  listener's  face.  It  was  Sidney  Lanier's 
poems,  and  the  reader  turned  the  pages  in  search  of 
those  lines  wherein  the  spiritual  beauty  of  the  man  best 
expressed  itself.  As  she  marked  the  responsiveness  of 
this  child  of  nature,  whose  face  quivered,  whose  eyes 
shone  over  passages  of  unusual  beauty,  she  felt  a  great 
pity  and  anxiety  for  the  untried  soul  standing  at  the 
open  door  of  life  with  its  temptations,  its  awful  re- 
sponsibilities, its  divine  possibilities.  When  she  came 
to  the  Hne  in  "The  Marshes  of  Glynn,"  "I  will  build 
me  a  nest  on  the  greatness  of  God,"  she  laid  her  hand 
gently  on  the  girl's  fair  head,  and,  brokenly  murmur- 
ing a  few  words,  knelt  with  her,  and  the  great  heart 
of  the  woman  poured  its  mother  love  out  in  a  prayer 
for  this  motherless  one  who  was  going  into  a  new  life 
and  would  need  infinite  wisdom,  infinite  love  to  guide 
her. 

When  they  arose,  they  looked  into  each  other's  eyes, 
Tenderest  sympathy  glowed  on  the  older  woman's 
face.  From  the  tear-wet  eyes  of  the  young  one  a 
great  purpose  shone.  "T  zmll  'build  me  a  nest  on  the 
greatness  of  God,'  "  she  softly  murmured. 

Thus  passed  Linda's  first  day  away  from  home — 
a  day  that  told  mightily  on  the  after  years  of  her  life, 

22 


In   tht  jf^antai)ala0 


so  great  are  the  seemingly  small  things  along  our  way. 
A  smile  here  to  a  stranger,  a  kindly  word  there,  and 
God's  opportunity  has  come.  Souls  touch,  and  new- 
born life  springs  up  to  vivify  and  brighten  many 
lives. 


23 


CHAPTER  III. 

A   boy's    way. 

He  was  scarcely  more  than  a  lad,  but  hope  and  virile 
energy  and  newly  awakened  ambition  stirred  the 
springs  of  his  being.  He  trod  the  hillsides  as  if  walk- 
ing among  the  stars.  Every  wild  flower  and  bush 
and  tree  shone  with  fresh  beauty,  seen  as  they  were 
through  the  glorified  medium  of  his  love. 

His  body  became  to  him  a  temple  consecrated  to  the 
finer  uses  of  his  spirit.  He  would  look  at  his  hands, 
hardened  by  contact  with  plow  and  hoe,  and  think  how 
their  rugged  strength  could  fend  for  a  woman,  for 
her  and — he  blushed  in  maiden  modesty  at  the  thought 
— for  her  children. 

The  woman !  Ah,  through  the  waking  hours  of  day 
and  the  happy  dreams  of  night  moved  the  slender 
figure  of  a  girl  with  shining  eyes  and  sunny  hair  and 
tender,  wistful  look.  For  days  after  saying  good-by 
to  her  he  seemed  to  hold  his  strength  in  leash  and 
gather  his  forces  for  some  great  movement.  It  was 
as  if  an  athlete  were  resting  himself  for  the  final 
struggle,  drawing  deep  breaths  and  measuring  the 
strength  and  staying  powers  of  his  opponent  as  well 
as  the  difficulties  of  the  track  before  him. 

When  he  felt  that  the  time  had  come  for  some 
definite  move  toward  that  larger  life  which  his  ambi- 
tion was  forecasting,  he  struck  across  fields  and 
through  woods  to  see  the  woman  whose  goodness  had 
planned  for  the  girl  whom  he  loved. 

24 


M   tJje   Jl5antaf)alas 


"I  have  never  known  the  boy,"  Miss  Wells  thought 
as  she  looked  into  his  face  and  listened  to  his  quiet 
voice. 

He  began  by  saying  that  he  had  come  to  her  for 
books.  Then  gradually,  as  the  sympathetic  and  tactful 
woman  drew  him  out,  he  told  her  of  the  new  hope 
that  was  brightening  his  life — how  he  expected  to 
work  with  the  girl's  half  promise  shining  as  a  star 
before  him.  The  very  poetry  of  love  trembled  through 
his  simple  speech  and  gave  it  beauty  and  dignity. 
His  awkwardness  yielded  to  a  self-possession  born  of 
overmastering  emotion. 

"I  wish  you  the  best,  the  highest  success,"  said  Miss 
Wells.  "Nowadays  when  a  young  man  determines 
to  educate  himself  there's  always  a  way.  Have  you 
any  definite  plans?" 

"No,  ma'am."  The  boy  used  the  crude  Southern- 
ism  with  an  air  that  spoke  of  manliness  and  chivalrous 
reverence  for  woman.  *T  haven't  talked  to  father. 
He  can't  well  spare  me  now.  It  will  soon  be  time 
to  gather  fodder,  and  then  the  corn.  I  don't  see 
how  he  can  do  without  me  this  fall." 

"But  you  should  be  in  school  now,  without  waiting 
another  week." 

"I  haven't  got  the  money.  I  had  thought  may- 
be I  could  help  the  neighbors  gather  their  crops  and 
make  something  that  way.  I  hope  to  go  after  Christ- 
mas— somewhere." 

"You  are  not  prepared  for  the  university?" 

"I  don't  know,  ma'am." 

In  a  few  pointed  questions  she  sounded  the  lad.  "It 
might  be  well  for  you  to  spend  this  year  in  a  good 
preparatory  school.  What  of  Professor  Harrison's,  in 
the  valley?    That  is  not  expensive." 

"I  had  thought  of  that." 

25 


Un   tf)e   jaantal)ala0 


"Would  you  like  for  me  to  write  to  him  about  you  ? 
I'd  be  glad  to  do  so." 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Wells ;  you  are  so  good." 

"In  the  meantime  take  this  book.  Get  off  to  your- 
self and  read  a  few  of  the  essays,  then  tell  me  your 
opinion  of  them.  I  can  tell  better  what  to  give  you 
to  read  after  that." 

"I'd  think  you'd  be  a  mighty  happy  woman,  doin'  so 
much  good.  The  whole  settlement's  different  since 
you've  lived   among  us." 

"It  does  make  me  happy  to  hear  you  talk  that  way, 
and  I  can  have  no  richer  reward  for  anything  I  can  do 
than  to  see  my  young  friends  leading  noble  lives." 

Harry  left  her  with  a  sense  of  elation,  of  masterful 
courage  filling  his  heart.  He  could,  he  zvould  accom- 
plish great  things  and  bring  his  success  to  the  girl  who 
had  only  halfway  given  herself  to  him.  She  should  yet 
find  him  worthy  of  a  full  and  free  surrender. 

On  the  way  home  he  turned  off  from  the  beaten 
trail  and  struck  out  along  the  mountainside  till  he  came 
to  a  place  he  had  often  visited  in  his  boyhood.  Here 
steep,  overhanging  rocks  lifted  their  heads  above  a 
dense  forest  which  covered  the  hillside.  On  the  brow 
of  one  of  these  projecting  rocks  he  threw  himself 
down  beneath  the  shade  of  a  rugged  pine  and  opened 
his  book. 

When  Harry  Turner  sent  his  mind  questing  in 
the  wide  spaces  opened  up  by  the  Concord  sage,  it 
was  as  if  some  young  Balboa  should  stand  upon  a 
lofty  eminence  and  with  far-seeing  eye  should  sweep 
the  boundless  waters  of  the  Pacific.  He  read  eagerly, 
hungrily  on.  Deep  in  his  nature  a  revolution  was 
taking  place.  Old,  careless  habits  of  thought  were 
giving  way  to  a  mighty  force.   He  laid  his  book  down 

26 


Un   tj^e   I^antaf)ala0 


and  looked  inward  upon  himself — upon  the  new  man 
that  was  waking  to  such  fullness  of  life. 

A  stir  in  the  wood  struck  Harry's  attention.  Look- 
ing up,  he  saw  a  gentleman  coming  toward  him — 
a  stranger  and  evidently  a  man  from  that  great  outer 
world  to  which  his  thoughts  were  continually  turn- 
ing these  latter  days.  The  boy  still  lay  with  his 
book  open  on  the  grass. 

"Good  evening."    The  man  sat  down  near  the  lad. 

"Howdy."    The  response  was  a  little  shy. 

"Reading,  are  you?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"May  I  look  at  your  book?"  The  boy  handed  him 
the  volume.  "Ah,  Emerson !  Where  did  you  get  ac- 
quainted with  him?" 

"A  friend  lent  me  the  book." 

"Do  you  like  it?" 

The  young  fellow's  eyes  shone.  "It's  fine.  I  never 
read   anything  like  it." 

"One  never  knows  what  to  look  for  in  this  land 
of  surprises.  Now,  I've  been  led  to  think  you  folks 
away  off  here  care  little  about  books." 

"Yes,  sir.  I  reckon  you  thought  we  all  say  'you 
uns.'  I  know  just  how  most  folks  think  about  us. 
But  we  do  know  a  little,  an'  we  don't  say  'you  all' 
when  we  mean  one  person,  an'  we  have  heard  that 
the  war  is  ended." 

They  looked  at  each  other  and  smiled. 

"I'm  revising  my  opinion  right  along.  You're  a 
pretty  shrewd  lot.  I've  seen  men  in  these  mountains 
who  have  as  much  philosophy  as  Emerson,  and  some- 
times it's  of  a  more  practical  sort."  He  turned  the 
leaves  of  the  book,  dipping  into  it  here  and  there.  "A 
young  man  could  hardly  fail  to  get  inspiration  from 
such  a  book.     Do  you  care  much  for  reading?" 

27 


In  tht  Ii5ama[)ala0 


"I  haven't  had  many  books — a  few  histories  and 
the  hves  of  Lee  and  Jackson.  My  father  fought 
through  the  war,  and  we  are  interested  in  such  things." 

"And  you've  learned  to  hate  us — the  Yankees — I 
guess  ?" 

"No ;  father  has  a  pretty  good  opinion  of  the  Yan- 
kees when  it  comes  to   a  fight." 

"That's  good.  It  begins  to  look  like  the  war  really 
had  ended.  Do  you  expect  to  go  to  college?  I've 
found  a  good  many  young  fellows  hereabout  are  going 
to  the  university." 

"I  wish  I  could." 

The  man  looked  at  the  boy  intently.  He  began  to 
speak,  then  paused.  Harry  waited  expectantly.  The 
stranger  finally  went  on :  "Do  you  know  this  neigh- 
borhood well?" 

"I've  hunted  through  these  woods  all  my  life." 

"You  know  that  Coon  Bletcher  has  a  distillery  some- 
where in  these  cliffs,  not  far  from  where  we  now 
are. 

Harry  said  nothing,  but  looked  the  other  in  the 
face  with  admirable  self-mastery. 

The  stranger  went  on :  "You  must  know  that  moon- 
shining  has  been  a  curse  to  western  North  Carolina. 
Now  that  prohibition  has  had  time  to  get  in  her  work, 
the  trouble  is  lessening.  In  a  few  years  the  business 
will  be  a  thing  of  the  past.  In  the  meantime  those 
who  help  us  break  up  this  lawlessness  will  do  the  whole 
country  good." 

"I  think  you're  mistaken.  Our  county  was  nearly 
shet  of  stills  before  prohibition  passed.  There's  been 
mighty  little  moonshinin'  here  since  I  could  re- 
member," 

"Perhaps  it  has  been  better  in  your  county,  but  as  a 

28 


3n   tbt  Ji5antaf)ala0 


whole  the  mountains  have  been  cursed  by  it.  I'll  tell 
you — say,  can't  you  show  me  that  distillery  ?" 

"Wha-a-t?"  Incredulous  astonishment  was  ex- 
pressed in  the  gentle  drawl. 

"Tell  me  where  itjSi^_S.Iiai^.me.  and  I'll  see  to  it 
that  you  go  to  the/State  Universi^Y^7  The  man  leaned 
forward  and  watched  the  lad's  face. 

Slowly  the  fire  kindled  in  the  boy's  eyes.  His  nos- 
trils dilated,  his  mouth  curved  contemptuously.  "Do 
you  mean  to  offer  me  pay  for  being  a  sneak  and  a 
scoundrel  ?" 

"O,  let's  have  no  heroics.  That's  just  as  you  look 
at  it.  The  South  thought  John  Brown  a  villain ;  the 
North  considered  him  a  martyr.  If  you  could  help  to 
break  up  the  making  of  a  deadly  poison,  wouldn't  you 
think  it  your  duty  to  do  so  ?" 

The  boy  looked  out  beyond  the  man,  down  the 
thickly  clad  mountain  side,  across  the  verdant  valley, 
and  far  toward  the  blue  line  of  the  horizon.  He  had 
been  taught  that  it  was  a  crime  to  report  a  distiller. 
This  code  of  honor  among  his  neighbors  was  as  bind- 
ing as  the  law  of  honesty.  His  training  bade  him  shun 
the  man.  His  hunger  for  education  caused  him  to 
hesitate. 

"Mind  you,  I  am  not  tempting  you  to  do  what  I 
consider  a  wrong  thing.  I  have  been  employed  to 
break  up  these  distilleries.  Good  men  are  paying  me 
for  the  time  I'm  putting  into  it,  and  you  shall  be 
liberally  rewarded  if  you  help  me." 

The  young  fellow's  mind  was  unused  to  any  fine 
discriminations  between  right  and  wrong.  The  half- 
hidden  temptations  that  assail  men  in  the  world  of 
business  had  never  come  his  way.  He  looked  into 
the  man's  face  as  if  seeking  the  motive  back  of  the 
offer. 

3  29 


Sn   tht  laantaftalas 


"Do  you  reckon  that's  a  square  thing  to  do?  Me 
and  Coon  Bletcher  went  to  school  together.  Why, 
he's  not  much  older  than  I  am,  and,  besides,  he's  got 
a  wife  an'  little  baby  to  take  care  of !  No,  sir-ee ! 
I  just  cain't  do  it."  He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  reached 
for  his  book.     "I  must  be  goin',  sir." 

The  stranger  laughed. 

"  'He    that    fights    and    runs    away, 
May  live  to  fight  another  day,' " 

he  quoted.  "That's  all  right.  If  you  can't  see  it  as  I 
do,  you  ought  to  refuse." 

The  two  parted,  going  in  opposite  directions.  After 
the  man  was  well  out  of  sight  and  hearing,  the  lad 
turned  his  course,  plunging  through  the  thick  under- 
growth down  the  mountain  side.  As  he  went  his  mind 
was  filled  with  thoughts  of  the  distiller's  wife  and 
child.  Only  the  Sunday  before  he  had  seen  them  at 
Miss  Wells's  meeting,  the  babe  bright  and  sweet, 
the  young  mother  proud  and  happy.  Why,  it  would 
be  a  brute  that  could  break  up  the  little  home.  He 
had  come  to  a  part  of  the  mountain  side  so  steep 
that  he  was  forced  to  let  himself  down  by  swinging 
from  one  stout  shrub  to  another  '■"  dropped 

from  the  lower  limb  of  a  tref  iself  at 

the  end  of  a  path  that  wound  .lillside 

and  lost  itself  in  the  laurel  bus.  ^d  aside 

the  undergrowth  and  crept  softly  v... ..aid,  calling: 
"Coon,  Coon!  Come  out.  It's  nobody  but  me — Harry 
Turner." 

There  was  absolute  stillness.  He  pressed  on  till 
he  came  to  the  object  of  his  search — the  narrow 
mouth  of  a  cave.  Again  le  paused.  To  go  on  might 
mean  death  if  Coon  was  there  and  failed  to  recognize 

30 


In   tht   Ii^antaftala0 


him.  "Coon,"  he  cried  in  a  subdued  voice,  "don't  you 
know  me?" 

"Shucks !  Harry  Turner,  you've  had  me  skyeered 
'most  to  death.  Come  on  in,  but  you  know  I'm  ready 
to  shoot  ef  there's  airy  bit  o'  meddhn'." 

Harry  bent  low  and  passed  through  the  opening  into 
the  cave.  Coon  was  standing  near  the  entrance  with 
his  gun  pointed  toward  the  newcomer.  The  latter 
looked  calmly  into  the  distiller's  face.  "Put  down 
your  gun.  Coon.  I  won't  do  you  any  harm,  an'  I 
reckon  you  ain't  'specially  anxious  to  git  yo'se'f  hun^ 

"Well,  I  don't  know's  I'm  hankerin'  furthe  hernp, 
an'  I  ain't  any  too  anxious  to  see  the  inside  o'  that 
Yankee  jail  in  Atlanta.  Uv  co'se  you  know  what's 
a-goin'  on  in  this  yere  cave,  but  I  don't  believe  I've  got 
airy   neighbor   low-down   enough   to   peach   on   me." 

Coon  motioned  Harry  to  a  seat,  and  himself  dropped 
down  on  a  rough  block  and  laid  his  gun  across  his 
knees,  "See  here,  Coon,"  said  Harry,  "you  don't  need 
this  sort  o'  life.    Why  don't  you  quit  it,  anyway?" 

"It's  mighty  easy  for  you  to  talk — all  you  folks 
that's  got  a  home  o'  yo'  own.  How  could  I  git  bread 
an'  meat  offen  my  few  acres  o'  po'  land?  It  won't 
hardly  sprout  peas,  and  the  only  thing  that's  wuth 
shucks  on  it  is  the  orchard  my  po'  ol'  daddy  planted. 
Ef  I  ain't  allowed  to  use  the  fruit  the  Lord  put  there, 
what  can  I  do  ?  You  cain't  sell  it  jes'  so ;  an'  ef  you 
can  tu'n  it  into  sumpin  you  can  sell,  whose  business 
is  it,  I  say?"  He  spoke  defiantly,  his  eyes  shifting 
uneasily  the  while. 

"But  there's  danger  in  it,  Coon.  Law  is  law,  even 
if  we  don't  see  the  right  of  it.  You  know  blockin'  has 
led  to  a  heap  o'  trouble  in  these  mountains.  It's  all 
wrong,  the  whole  business,  an'  you  must  git  out  of 
it." 

31 


In   tht   Ji^antaf)aIa0 


"Must?" 

"Yes,  must.  That's  a  strong  word,  but  as  a  friend 
I'll  say  it.  There's  a  stranger  in  the  settlement  now. 
I  don't  know  exactly  what  he  is — revenue  spy  or  some- 
thing.    He's  on  the  hunt  for  you — I  know  that." 

Coon  gripped  his  gun  and  scowled.  His  uneasy 
life  was  hardening  his  nature,  and  the  strain  of  it 
was  beginning  to  show  on  his  youthful  face.  He 
prefaced  his  words  with  a  string  of  oaths,  then  went 
on :  "Let  him  come  in  reach  o'  me,  an'  I'll  give  him 
a  dose  to  last  him  many  a  day." 

"Then  what  would  become  of  your  wife  and  baby?" 

"Go  to  the  po'house,  I  reckon." 

"What  about  the  disgrace  you'd  bring  on  your  little 
girl?  I  tell  you,  Coon,  the  right  way  is  the  one,  after 
all." 

The  shadows  were  lengthening  when  the  two  came 
out  into  the  sunlight,  but  Harry's  pleading  had  won. 
He  carried  with  him  Coon's  promise  that  his  still 
would  be  forever  closed,  and  in  his  own  heart  was  the 
glad  consciousness  that  a  fellow-being  had  been  up- 
lifted through  his  help.  Again  he  walked  as  if 
among  the  stars.  A  woman's  love  is  not  all  of  life. 
In  the  depths  of  his  soul  was  the  stirring  of  new 
forces — love  for  his  brother-man,  a  sweet  recognition 
of  kinship  with  Infinite  Love,  and  a  sense  of  humble 
gratitude  that  through  him  Infinite  Good  might  work 
to  noble  ends. 


32 


CHAPTER  IV. 

LINDA    AT    SCHOOL. 

This  seemed  a  new  world  into  which  Linda  Graham 
had  come.  During  the  first  few  days  waves  of  home- 
sickness would  drown  all  other  feelings.  She  longed 
for  the  old  familiar  surroundings — the  little  lonely 
farm-house,  the  spring  beneath  the  big  water  oaks, 
the  cows  browsing  in  their  pasture,  the  noble  hills 
sweeping  around  her,  and  over  all  the  Bald  keeping 
its  eternal  watch.  The  mountains  were  here  around 
the  beautiful  town,  but  they  seemed  alien  to  the  eyes 
that  had  gazed  on  the  same  scenes  for  a  lifetime. 
As  the  weeks  passed  she  adjusted  herself  to  the  new 
conditions  and  began  to  win  from  them  a  deep  happi- 
ness. She  felt  a  sense  of  space  and  freedom  hitherto  un- 
known in  her  experience.  She  fell  easily  into  the  routine 
of  school  life.  The  daily  recitations  brought  the  con- 
sciousness of  a  power  that  thrilled  her  with  joy.  She 
found  that  mentally  she  could  keep  step  with  the 
leaders  in  her  class,  and  soon  this  fact  began  to  tell 
on  her  intercourse  with  the  girls  of  the  school.  In- 
stead of  dreading  the  keen  eyes  of  strangers,  fearful 
lest  they  discover  something  laughable  in  manners  or 
attire,  she  gradually  became  at  ease  among  her  fel- 
lows. And  while  she  watched  other  girls  and  took 
many  an  unofifered  hint  as  to  dress  and  deportment, 
she  felt  less  constraint  among  them  and  learned  to 
make  the  best  of  her  scant  wardrobe. 

33 


In   the  i^antabalas 


Her  work  in  sewing  room,  laundry,  and  dining 
hall  was  a  pleasure  rather  than  a  burden.  From  it 
she  fed  her  independence  of  spirit  and  unconsciously 
strengthened  her  character.  From  it,  too,  her  love 
of  beauty  drew  sustenance.  Orderliness  and  the  joy 
of  attainment  grew  as  she  fashioned  a  garment  or 
watched  the  dainty  shirt  waist  or  serviceable  linen 
come  from  the  pressure  of  her  iron.  Especially  did 
she  gather  pleasure  from  her  duties  in  the  dining 
hall.  The  neatly  kept  tables  were  wonderfully  attrac- 
tive to  the  girl  who  had  been  accustomed  to  seeing 
the  meal  time  pass  as  if  it  were  a  few  moments 
snatched  from  work  and  used  for  the  display  of  boor- 
ish manners.  Along  with  other  girls  who  attended 
to  the  dining  room,  she  would  search  the  woods  for 
wild  fllowers  and  later  for  ferns  and  autumn  leaves 
with  which  to  decorate  her  table.  Often  at  such 
times  she  would  feel  a  pang  of  pity  for  the  ones  at 
home,  accustomed  as  they  were  to  the  oilcloth-covered 
table,  the  rough  ware,  and  unseemly  manners. 

She  resolved  to  work  for  a  better  order  of  things 
when  vacation  should  come.  Mentally  she  planned 
little  means  by  which  she  would  change  the  home 
methods.  She  could  manage.  There  would  be  more 
linen,  even  though  it  must  be  of  an  inferior  sort. 
Flowers  would  brighten  the  table.  The  children  must 
be  appealed  to  in  unobtrusive  ways,  and  thus  perhaps 
the  older  ones  might  be   reached. 

As  her  intercourse  with  other  girls  broadened  and 
deepened,  hfe  took  on  a  richer  fullness.  She  stood 
tip-toe,   looking  out  toward  the  brightening  horizon. 

One  morning,  a  few  weeks  after  entering  school, 
she  was  passing  through  the  hall  when  one  of  the 
day  pupils  met  her.  The  girl  ran  to  Linda  and, 
throwing  her  arms  about  her,  cried:  "O,  you  beauty! 

34 


M   tjbe   Ii5antti!)ala0 


I  don't  believe  you  begin  to  know  how  awfully  pretty 
you  are.  We  all  think  you  are  quite  the  prettiest 
girl  in  school,  but  you  never  seem  to  dream  of  such 
a  thing.     Didn't  anybody  ever  tell  you  about  it?" 

"No — O,   no!"   and   the   delicate   face   flushed. 

"Do  you  know,  if  I  were  a  man  I'd  simply  haunt 
you?     You'd  have  to  love  me." 

"Don't!  don't!"  said  Linda  in  real  distress. 

"O,  it's  true !"  vrent  on  the  mischievous  girl ;  "but 
I  ought  not  to  tell  you.  If  we  spoil  you  by  making 
you  think  of  your  looks,  you'll  not  be  half  so  pretty. 
But  tell  me  about  yourself  and  your  people.  You 
know,  Tm  a  'mountain  white,'  as  mother  says,  and 
we  must  be  good  friends.  You'll  get  over  being 
shy,  and  you'll  like  the  girls,  I'm  sure.  Now  talk 
to  me,"  and  Fannie  Everett  drew  Linda  toward  the 
front  door. 

Soon  the  girls  were  walking  slowly  back  and  forth 
in  front  of  the  building  while  Linda's  timidity  was 
giving  way  before  Fannie's  warm  impetuosity.  This 
was  the  beginning  of  a  friendship  which  gave  to  the 
motherless  girl  one  of  her  greatest  pleasures. 

The  Everetts  were  among  the  leading  people  of  the 
county.  They  were  possessed  of  that  culture  which 
elevates  both  head  and  heart.  Hospitality  was  one 
of  their  chief  characteristics,  and  soon  Linda  was  a 
frequent  visitor  in  their  home.  Here  she  began  to 
see  life  at  its  best — a  life  where  kindness  and  gentle 
courtesy  added  to  matepai-tLeauty  and  made  up  an 
ideal  existence.  Mrs.  fEverett^vas  one  of  the  most 
motherly  of  women.  Tfff^sured  position  in  the 
best  society  of  town  and/county  had  never  given  her 
an  air  of  conscious  superiority.  Genuine  kindness 
and  unselfishness  predominated  in  her  nature;  and 
when   Fannie,   to   u^e   her   enthusiastic   phrase,    ''fell 

35 


In   the  jaantalbala$ 


in  love"  with  Linda,  the  mother  was  ready  to  do  any- 
thing in  her  power  to  further  the  friendship. 

During  the  Christmas  vacation  Linda  was  an  hon- 
ored guest  in  the  Everett  home.  For  her,  in  her  iso- 
lated life,  the  happy  season  had  meant  little.  Usually 
there  had  been  a  few  gatherings  at  which  some  of 
the  young  men  were  almost  sure  to  be  under  the  in- 
fluence of  liquor.  To  one  of  Linda's  native  tendency 
to  refinement  these  little  parties  were  trials  rather 
than  pleasures.  Looking  back  now,  she  wondered 
that  she  had  endured  one. 

On  Christmas  eve  all  was  joyous  commotion  in 
the  home.  Mrs.  Everett's  brother,  a  physician  from 
a  large  town  below  the  mountains,  was  expected  to 
spend  the  holidays  with  them.  He  was  a  prime 
favorite  with  Fannie  and  the  younger  children,  and 
all  were  excited  at  the  prospect  of  his  visit.  When 
the  carriage  drove  up  with  Mr.  Everett  and  Dr.  Mon- 
tague there  was  a  glad  rush  through  the  hall,  and 
the  children  gathered  on  the  porch  in  spite  of  the  snow 
that  blew  this  way  and  that  in  hearty  Christmas  style. 

"Come,  Linda,"  cried  Fannie,  dragging  her  friend 
through  the  hall ;  but  Linda  drew  back  at  the  front 
door  and  retreated  to  the  brilliantly  lighted  parlor. 
The  sound  of  merry  voices,  heart-free  laughter,  the 
stamping  of  feet  to  shake  ofif  the  gathering  snow 
brought  again  to  the  girl  that  old  ache — the  sense 
of  being  an  alien,  homeless,  not  fitting  into  any  place, 
but  ever  unresting,  ever  one  to  herself. 

When  they  crowded  into  the  parlor  Fannie  ran  to 
her.  "Uncle  Win,  this  is  my  best  friend,  Linda 
Graham.     Dr.  Montague,  Miss   Graham." 

She  looked  up  into  his  face.  He  held  out  his  hand 
with  a  friendly  smile.  "I  may  be  allowed  a  hand- 
shake, then."     He  was  prepared  to  treat  the  girl  as 

36 


Un   tfje   i^anmf)ala0 


if  she  were  half  child,  half  woman ;  but  when  he 
looked  down  into  her  eyes  and  watched  the  changing 
face  he  felt  that  here,  in  spite  of  her  youth,  was  a 
girl  who  had  overstepped  the  last  boundary  into 
womanhood.  Here  was  not  simply  the  care-free 
thoughtlessness  of  Fannie  and  her  kind,  but  the  half 
sadness  that  comes  with  life's  later  experiences.  He 
gently  dropped  her  hand  and  turned  to  the  little  folks, 
who  were  clamoring  for  his  attention.  A  toss-up  of 
the  baby,  a  merry  joke  with  the  boys,  a  mammoth 
hug  for  demure  little  Elizabeth,  and  the  group  was 
filled    with    bubbling   happiness. 

The  earlier  part  of  the  evening  was  given  to  the 
children.  At  the  supper  table  bright  talk  of  Santa 
Claus  was  bandied  about,  and  each  child  was  invited 
to  tell  just  what  the  dear  old  Saint  should  bring 
him.  After  the  tots  had  been  put  to  bed.  Dr.  Mon- 
tague arose.  "I  say,  Lizzie,  if  you  don't  happen  to 
have  the  things  your  youngsters  are  expecting,  I'd 
like   to  serve   as   Santa   to-night  myself." 

"They  have  everything  they  need.  Your  questions 
made  them  think  of  things  that  might  never  have  en- 
tered  their  minds." 

"Well,   I'm  going  out  to  find  those  very  things." 

"O,  don't  go  and  buy  a  whole  menagerie.  If  you 
are  anxious  to  spend  your  money,  you  may  help  me 
with  the  work  we  are  trying  to  do  for  a  few  poor 
families." 

"Mamma,  do  let  Linda  and  myself  go  with  Uncle 
Win  to  fit  up  those  children.  I  know  exactly  what 
I  want  for  little   lame  Mamie   Fisher." 

"Isn't  it  too  bad  for  the  girls  to  be  out,  Winstead?" 

"Bundle  them  up  and  let  them  come  on.  It's  only 
fun  to  be  out  in  the  snow." 

In  a  few  moments  they  were  dressed  to  go  with 

37 


In  the  s^anmMlm 


him,  Linda  wearing  a  heavy  wrap  of  Mrs.  Everett's 
with  the  deep  fur  collar  drawn  up  about  her  throat. 
"This  is  much  warmer  than  your  jacket,  Linda,  and 
you  must  please  me  by  wearing  it.  Remember  it  is 
just  as   if  Fannie  should  do  so." 

Linda  looked  into  the  gentle  eyes  and  fought  the 
tears  back.  "How  good  you  are !"  she  said  in  a  lo\V 
voice.     "I  don't  deserve  it  all." 

"Yes,  you  do ;  and  you  must  let  me  mother  you  all 
I   wish." 

With  many  a  jest  from  Fannie  and  Dr.  Montague 
they  went  forth  to  search  the  stores.  As  they  neared 
the  post  office  Fannie  suggested  that  they  inquire  for 
mail.  Dr.  Montague  brought  out  a  batch  and  handed 
two  letters  to  Linda.  Standing  under  a  street  light, 
with  the  snow  falling  softly  on  her  eager  hands,  the 
girl  opened  one  of  them.  She  caught  a  deep  breath 
and  looked  at  Fannie. 

"What  is  it,   Linda?     You  look   daft,  my  dear," 

"I  was  only  thinking  what  a  lovely  world  this  is 
and  how  Fve  misjudged  it."  A  tender  light  shone 
from  her  eyes.    Her  lips  quivered. 

Fannie  took  the  extended  letter.  In  an  instant  she 
grasped  Linda's  arm  and  shook  it  vigorously.  "Isn't 
that  fine?  'Let  us  all  cry,'  as  Dr.  Holmes  would  say. 
You  dear  old  thing !  How  do  you  manage  to  make 
people  love  you  so  ?    Say,  can  I  tell  Uncle  Win  ?" 

"It  wouldn't  interest  him." 

Fannie  turned  to  him.  "Come,  Uncle  mine,  let  me 
read  you  a  page  from  a  fairy  tale :  'Dear  Linda:  I 
inclose  you  a  check  for  a  small  sum  [I  think  it 
princely] .  I  hope  you  will  get  as  much  pleasure  from 
spending  it  as  I  am  having  in  sending  it  to  you.  With 
good  wishes  and  prayers  that  He  whose  spirit  prompts 
all    Christmas   cheer   mav   hold   you   in   loving  com- 

38 


Sn   tbt  Ji^ama!)ala0 


munion,  I  am  your  friend,  Henrietta  Eccles.'  Now 
isn't  that  fine?" 

"I  think  so." 

"Come  on,  Linda,  let's  celebrate.  You  must  have 
such  a  Christmas  as  you've  never  had  before,"  and 
the  happy  girl  linked  her  arm  in  her  friend's,  swung 
her  around,  and  ordered,  "Forward,  march !" 

Linda's  heart  thrilled  with  deep  happiness.  Over 
and  over  she  was  saying  to  herself:  "  'I  will  build  me 
a  nest  on  the  greatness  of  God.'  "  The  words  carried 
her  back  to  the  night  she  had  spent  with  Mrs.  Eccles, 
when  that  noble  woman  broke  down  the  barriers  of 
Linda's  timid  reserve  and  went  straight  into  the 
young  heart's  holy  of  holies.  "I  will  be  a  better  girl 
because  I  have  the  memory  of  such  a  friend.  Lord, 
help  me  to  be  a  little  like  her."  She  dared  not  hope 
for  such  richness  of  womanhood.  That  distinguished 
grace,  that  air  of  intellectual  beauty  mingled  with  a 
spiritual  power  that  shone  preeminent,  made  up  a  com- 
bination as  rare  as  it  was  impressive. 

Not  until  Linda  was  in  her  room  alone  did  she  open 
the  other  letter.  For  a  long  time  she  sat  with  the 
sheet  in  her  hand,  her  face  a  study  in  conflicting 
emotions.  She  had  been  away  from  home  five  months, 
and  this  was  only  the  third  letter  she  had  received 
from  the  young  man.  On  the  condition  that  their  cor- 
respondence should  be  restrained  and  occasional  she 
had  agreed  to  write  to  him.  Now  she  questioned  the 
right  and  wisdom  of  allowing  so  much.  She  had 
acknowledged  to  a  little  interest,  a  little  special  feel- 
ing for  him.  She  had  gone  farther  and  encouraged 
him  to  make  greater  effort  toward  building  a  real 
manhood  for  himself,  holding  out  to  him  the  hope  of 
ultimate  reward — a  reward  that  could  be  construed 
to  mean   only   one   thing.     Had   she   gone   too   far? 

39 


3tt   tjbe  Ji5anta|)ala0 


She  looked  at  the  letter,  written  in  a  cramped,  boyish 
hand,  the  English  crude,  the  spelling  imperfect,  and  a 
sense  of  shame  possessed  her.  She  thought  of  his 
awkwardness,  his  ill-fitting  clothes,  his  lack  of  de- 
velopment at  every  point.  She  set  him  beside  the  men 
she  had  met  in  these  school  months,  and  she  knew 
that  shame  would  overwhelm  her  if  she  were  forced 
to  acknowledge  before  her  new  friends  the  relation- 
ship that  really  existed  between  them.  Then  she 
would  upbraid  herself  for  lack  of  loyalty  in  this,  the 
first  test  her  heart  had  endured.  Again  came  the 
words :  "I  will  build  me  a  nest  on  the  greatness 
of  God."  Should  she  allow  a  few  outside  circum- 
stances to  hide  the  boy's  genuine  worth?  Was  there 
any  depth  in  the  spiritual  nature  that  professed  to 
be  building  on  God  and  at  the  same  time  looked  on 
life  with   such    shallow-seeing   eyes? 

She  knevi^  it  had  been  hard  for  him  to  leave  home 
and  enter  school.  He  had  been  working  his  way, 
chopping  wood  and  doing  odd  jobs  for  his  board.  It 
humiliated  her  to  remember  that  he  was  making  this 
manly  struggle  while  she  was  doubting  and  debating. 

At  last  she  folded  the  letter  with  a  firm  hand  and 
rose  to  undress.  Her  mind  was  settled.  She  would 
be  true  to  him.  He  was  older  than  herself ;  but  be- 
cause of  a  girl's  earlier  maturity  she  had  that  feel- 
ing for  him  that  women  often  have  for  men — a  feeling 
in  which  the  maternal  is  mixed  with  other  and  more 
complicated  instincts.  "He  said  I'd  forget  old 
friends."  She  went  back  in  memory  to  that  last  walk 
through  the  sweet  mountain  woods.  "It  must  not 
be.    It  shall  not  be." 


40 


V 
V 


CHAPTER  V. 

FRIENDS. 

"Christmas  gift !  Christmas  gift !"  the  children 
were  shouting  at  her  door  when  Linda  waked.  There 
was  a  scurry  of  Httle  feet,  a  combined  rush  of  restless 
little  bodies  and  another  door  was  assailed  with  merry 
cries  and  a  tumultuous  pounding  of  fists :  "Uncle 
Win,  Uncle  Win ;  get  up  !  Christmas  gift !  Christmas 
gift !" 

A  deep  voice  called,  "Get  out !  Go  'way ;  go  'way, 
you  little  scamps,  and  let  me  have  my  beauty  sleep." 

"Tome  on,  Unc'  Win.  Yet  see  what  Santa  Taus 
b'ought   us.      Mamma   said   wait   for   you." 

"All  right,  lady;  I'll  be  down  in  a  jiffy." 

Before  Linda  was  dressed  Fannie  came  in  and 
greeted  her  affectionately.  "This  must  be  a  royal 
day  for  you,  the  first  Christmas  you  ever  spent  away 
from  home.  We  must  make  up  to  you  for  every- 
thing." 

"You  are  doing  more  than  that,  Fannie.  You 
must  remember  'home'  to  me  is  very  different  from 
what  the  word  means  to  you.  I  can't  remember  father 
or  mother,  and  Aunt  Sarah  has  never  been  able  to 
make  a  real  holiday  time  for  us.  You  may  think  it 
strange,  but  I  never  had  a  Christmas  present  in  my 
life   'till   last   night." 

"Well,  hurry  up  and  see  what  Saint  Nicholas  is 
doing  for  you  this  time,  you  dear  old  darling." 

41 


3n   tbt  J^antafjalag 

For  a  short  while  the  household  gathered  in  the 
big  living  room.  A  scene  of  joyous  confusion  fol- 
lowed. The  glad  voices  of  delighted  children,  the  ex- 
clamations of  the  old  cook,  "Dar  now,  bress  de 
Lawd — Thanky',  thanky',  Miss  Lizzie,  thanky',  Mr. 
John";  the  housemaid's  voluble  gratitude;  Fannie's 
happy  chatter,  all  served  to  create  an  atmosphere  in 
which  sadness  would  have  been  utterly  out  of  place. 
Yet  to  Linda  there  came  crowding  thoughts  that 
sobered  her  by  contrast.  In  her  memory's  vision  rose 
a  shabby  house  meanly  furnished.  Where  now  she 
saw  soft  carpets,  easy  chairs,  well  bound  books  and 
tasteful  pictures,  in  the  other  scene  there  were  bare, 
rough  walls  and  floors,  home-made  chairs — everything 
cheap  and  unlovely.  The  girl's  heart  ached  as  she 
recalled  the  familiar  surroundings  and  saw  the  worn 
face  and  hopeless  air  of  her  mother's  sister.  The 
narrowness  of  the  life  smote  her  cruelly.  She  felt 
that  she  must  get  out  of  this  sunlight,  that  she  had 
no  right  to  this  bright,  rich  life  while  those  to  whom 
she  was  united  by  closest  ties  were  shut  up  in  such 
prison  bounds.  These  thoughts  were  flashing  through 
her  brain  while  the  children  and  servants  were  open- 
ing their  packages. 

"Now,"  cried  Fannie ;  "we'll  see  our  presents.  Come 
on,  Linda."  The  older  ones  gathered  about  the  table. 
There  was  an  elegantly  bound  set  of  books  for  Mr. 
Everett,  different  articles  for  LTncle  Win,  as  each  child 
must  contribute  to  his  store.  A  few  pieces  of  ex- 
quisite china  and  some  dainty  books  bore  Mrs.  Ever- 
ett's name,  but  the  family  had  spent  most  gener- 
ously where  the  young  girls  were  concerned. 

The  way  in  which  the  two  received  their  presents 
showed  how  widely  different  their  temperaments  were, 
and  yet  Fannie's  ah's  and  oh's,  her  happy  effusiveness, 

42 


In   tf)c   jeantaftala0 


held  no  hint  of  insincerity.  On  Linda's  tell-tale  face, 
appreciation,  deep  gratitude,  amounting-  almost  to  pain, 
seemed  to  be  struggling  with  the  lighter  feelings  that 
she  tried   to  express, 

"Oh,  come  off,  you  goosey !  I  do  believe  you  want 
to  fall  on  my  neck  and  weep.  Let's  dance  instead," 
and  Fannie  swung  Linda  around  the  room  in  a  mad 
whirl,  keeping  time  to  a  merry  tune  as  it  came  from 
her  own  daintily  pursed-up  mouth. 

"Win,  don't  you  think  it's  time  for  Fannie  to  stop 
whistling?  It's  a  dreadfully  tomboyish  habit — to  me 
— but  her  father  seems  to  think  it's  a  fine  joke." 

"Let  her  whistle,  dear.  There'll  come  a  time,  all 
too  soon,  when  the  child  will  not  care  to  whistle." 

"That's  right,  Daddy.  Take  up  for  me!  Til  be 
fearfully  and  wonderfully  dignified  after  my  coming 
out.  Don't  you  think  that'll  be  time  enough,  Uncle 
Win?" 

"I  certainly  do." 

"Don't  you  see,  mother,  they  are  two  to  one  ?  Come 
on  and  let  me  convert  you."  She  paused  a  moment, 
released  Linda  and,  throwing  her  arm  about  her 
mother's  waist,  waltzed  rapidly  around  the  room  with 
her. 

"How's  that?  Don't  you  feel  better?  Younger? 
More  like  the  beautiful  and  accomplished  I\Iiss  ]\Ion- 
tague  in  the  days  when  she  was  the  belle  of  central 
Carolina?" 

"I  feel  like  stopping  and  trying  to  get  a  breath. 
Do  let  me  sit  down,  Fannie,  Fm  fairly  gasping." 

"I  see;  please  forgive  me,  mother,"  and  she  led 
Mrs.  Everett  to  an  easy  chair,  gently  seated  her  and 
stood  by  her  with  a  serio-comic  look  on  her  face. 
"There  now,  you  are  coming  to !  It  all  goes  to  illus- 
trate what   I've  been  trying  to   teach   you,  that  it's 

43 


Kn   tfte   jQantafjalajf 


best  to  have  a  little  fun  as  you  go  along.  There's 
Linda  with  her  tragedy-queen  make-up.  Watch  her 
struggling  for  breath  yet,  while  I'm  perfectly  calm. 
What  is  it  Master  William  says? — 'Your  merry  heart 
goes  all  the  way,  you're  sad  tires  in  a  mile — a?' 
That  reminds  me,  let  me  see  your  Shakespeare,  Linda. 
I  believe  Daddy  did  the  nice  thing  when  he  bought 
that  for  you."  Linda  picked  up  the  two  handsome  vol- 
umes. "He  did  a  beautiful  thing  and  I  don't  know 
how  to  thank  him  enough." 

"You  like  it?  That  pays  me  well,"  answered  Mr. 
Everett. 

"Now  allow  me  to  decorate  you,  Miss  Graham," 
Fanny  deftly  adjusted  a  brooch  at  Linda's  throat— 
"you  behold  your  friend's  perfect  taste  in  this  pin. 
Ma  Mere  was  inclined  to  pearls  and  turquoise  be- 
cause of  your  blonde  hair  and  complexion,  but  with 
your  dark  eyes  and  intense  nature  I  thought  the  rose 
garnet  better,  so  you  have  a  real  Carolina  gem,  one, 
too,  peculiar  to  your  native  country.  You  haven't 
tried  the  ring,  have  you  ?"  and  she  slipped  a  splendid 
Mexican  opal  on  Linda's  finger.  "You  know  I  re- 
fuse to  believe  in  bad  luck  at  all.  This  does  look 
like  flying  in  the  face  of  a  whole  world's  wisdom, 
but  I  know  of  no  stone  so  pretty." 

"It  is  lovely,  and " 

"And  you''d  like  to  kiss  me,  but  you're  too  timid 
to   suggest   it  ?     Well,   here   goes." 

With  such  happy  badinage  Fannie  brightened  the 
morning  hours  till  the  time  came  for  the  distribution 
of  Mrs.  Everett's  gifts  to  her  proteges. 

At  ten  o'clock  a  sleigh  was  driven  to  the  front  and 
Dr.  Montague  and  the  two  girls  drove  off  with  their 
well-filled  baskets. 

On  Linda's  cheek  there  was  a  soft  flush,  and  in  her 

44 


3Jn   tU  iaanta|bala0 


eye  a  happy  light.  The  contagion  of  Fannie's  spirits 
had  driven  out  the  half-sad  thoughts  that  came  with 
the  vision  of  her  old  home.  She  could  not  be  un- 
happy in  this  atmosphere  of  genial  friendship,  of 
beautiful   kindliness. 

Enveloped  in  a  long  wrap  which  Mrs.  Everett 
had  just  given  her  in  the  privacy  of  her  own  room, 
she  w^as  conscious  that  her  appearance  suggested 
neither  poverty  nor  out-of-dateness,  and  the  con- 
sciousness gave  her  ease  of  manner. 

When  Dr.  Montague  helped  her  into  the  sleigh 
he  noted  the  glow  on  her  face,  the  beauty  there.  As 
he  seated  himself  by  her  side  he  marked  her  delicate 
profile,  the  perfection  of  nose  and  brow  and  mouth, 
and  marveled  that  such  flower-like  loveliness  could 
have  blossomed   in   rough   mountain   surroundings. 

The  first  stop  was  made  at  the  home  of  the  crippled 
child.  Fannie  and  Linda  went  in,  leaving  Dr.  Mon- 
tague in  charge  of  the  horses. 

"You  will  find  gratitude  here,  Linda ;  but  with  some 
of  mother's  pets  it's  funny  to  see  how  her  gifts  are 
accepted.     I  want  to  take  you  to  see  Aunt  Mad-cap." 

Nannie's  face  was  bright  as  the  sunlight  on  the 
gleaming  snow  outside  when  Fannie  opened  her  bas- 
ket and  undid  the  bundles.  There  was  a  warm  sack 
for  the  thin  little  body,  a  big  doll  flaunting  the  most 
elegant  clothes,  candies  and  fruits  galore,  while  the 
mother  was  gladdened  with  the  sight  of  a  dressed  tur- 
key, loaves  of  bread,  a  cake  and  other  things  to  com- 
plete a  Christmas  feast.  Mrs.  Fisher's  few  broken 
words  of  thanks  were  eloquent  with  gratitude,  and  the 
two  girls  went  out  of  the  room  with  softened  step  and 
tremulous  voices. 

"I  see  now  -why  people  are  opposing  the  Lady 
Bountiful  business.     It's  the  old   feeling  that  steals 

4  45 


In   tfje  jaantaf)ala0 


our  pleasure  away  by  making  us  think  we  ought  not 
to  enjoy  anything.  I'm  going  to  give  more  recklessly 
even  than  mother,  and  pat  myself  on  the  head  for 
being  good  if  I  wish.  Don't  vou  think  that's  wise, 
Uncle  Win?" 

"Of  course.  I  am  not  able  to  see  the  beauty  of  our 
modern  philanthropy.  If  you  see  a  poor  fellow  in 
need  of  a  coat  you  surely  wouldn't  send  a  committee 
to  inquire  of  his  financial  standing.  However,  I 
guess  there  is  some  excuse  for  organized  charity. 
I've  been  fleeced  often  enough  to  be  sure  of  that ;  but 
I  go  on  just  the  same." 

"Yes,  here's  Aunt  Mad-cap,  she  ought  to  be  under 
a  Board  of  Directors,  I  suppose ;  but  mother  keeps  on 
with  the  good  work   in   spite  of  everything." 

They  alighted  in  front  of  a  tumble-down  cabin  in 
the  poorest  part  of  the  town.  Fannie  took  a  basket 
and  the  girls  were  soon  in  the  shabby  room. 

"Christmas  gift,  Aunt  Mad-cap,"  shouted  Fannie 
in  the  old  woman's  ear.     "How  are  you  ?" 

"Pohly.  pohly ;  w'hy  didn't  your  mother  come?"  and 
the  old  creature  looked  at  the  girl  with  marked  dis- 
approval. 

"Oh,  we  wanted  to  come,  we  were  so  anxious  to 
give  you  pleasure." 

"Ugh — h,"  the  groan  was  dismal  enough,  but  the 
face  gave  sign  of  softening  a  little. 

"Mrs.  Everett  has  sent  you  such  nice  things.  Aunt 
Mad-cap,  and  hopes  you  will  enjoy  them,"  said  Linda, 
while  they  were  unpacking  the  basket. 

"Uncle  Win  has  ordered  you  a  load  of  coal.  It 
will  soon  be  here,  Auntie." 

"How  come  your  Uncle  Win  to  do  that?  Tryin' 
to  save  his  soul  by  givin'  to  a  ol'  beggar?" 

"No,  he  does  it  because  his  heart  is  big  enough  to 

46 


in   tbt  J^antaf)aIa0 


take  in  the  world.  You  ought  to  know  Uncle  Win. 
You'd  change  your  mind  about  the  badness  of  men  in 
general." 

"They  are  all  bad,  all  bad,"  grumbled  the  woman. 

"In   spite  of   the   coal.   Auntie  ?" 

"Yes,  yes ;  I  never  knowed  any  good  uns,  and  you 
youngsters  better  let  'em  alone."  There  was  a  fero- 
cious gleam  in  the  dim  old  eyes,  and  the  shriveled 
hand  clutched  savagely  at  the  arm  of  her  chair. 

'"O,  but  there  are  good  and  great  men,  Auntie. 
Remember  that  He  who  made  Christmas  what  it  is 
was  once  a  man  and  walked  the  earth  doing  good." 

Linda  looked  at  her   friend  in  astonishment. 

"Mebbe  I'd  'a'  been  a  better  woman  if  somebody 
had  'a'  tol'  me  mo'  about  Him,"  answered  the  woman ; 
"but  I  never  knowed  much  about  good  folks.  Yo' 
mother  is  mighty  nigh  the  only  good  un  I'm  ac- 
quainted with.  And  you  be  sho'  to  tell  her  I'm  m  ich 
obleeged  for  all  these  nice  things.  You  needn't  say 
nary  word  to  your  uncle,  though.  I  hate  the  men ; 
Lord,  I  hate  'em!" 

The  voice  rose  to  a  shriek,  and  the  poor  fist  was 
clenched.  Fannie  laid  a  gentle  hand  on  the  woman's 
head.  "There,  there,  you  must  not  excite  yourself 
so.     You'll   feel   better  about  these   things   yet." 

Her  voice  was  low  and  tender.  A  mother  could  not 
have  spoken  more  soothingly  to  a  fretful  child.  Again 
Linda  looked  the  astonishment  she  felt. 

As  they  left  the  cabin  Fannie  turned  to  her  friend. 
"I  must  have  shown  you  the  shallow  side  of  my  nature 
always,  you  looked  so  surprised  to  see  me  trying  to 
quiet  the  old  creature." 

"I  was  surprised  to  hear  you  speak  as  if " 

"As  if  I  believed  in  Him  whom  we  are  trving  to 
follow?" 


47 


3n   tfje   Ji5anta!)ala0 


"Yes,  that's  it." 

"Well,  I  do  not  wear  my  faith  on  my  sleeve ;  but 
my  love  for  Him  is  worth  all  the  world  to  me,  Linda, 
and  it  shames  me  because  you  can  show  your  religion 
— use  your  religion  so  much  more  than  I  do." 

"No,  no,  dear;  you  are  full  of  the  very  essence  of 
religion — love  for  everybody  about  you." 

"I  wish  I  could  feel  that  you  are  not  mistaken. 
But  this  poor,  half-crazed  woman  always  stirs  me 
mightily.  I've  only  learned  lately  just  why  she  hates 
men.  When  her  only  child  married,  the  husband 
turned  out  to  be  a  drunkard,  beat  his  wife,  and  was 
indirectly  the  cause  of  her  death  as  well  as  that  of  her 
little  babe.  Since  then  Mad-cap  has  been  just  as  she 
is  now." 

By  the  time  the  round  of  visits  was  made  Fannie 
was  her  old  mischievous  self,  but  to  her  friend  the 
morning  had  been  a  revelation,  and  when  the  day 
had  passed  Linda  fell  asleep  soothed  by  happy 
thoughts.  Above  everything  was  the  recognition  that 
people  about  her  had  unsounded  depths  of  feeling,  of 
unimagined  soul-beauty. 


48 


CHAPTER  VI. 

STEPPING  STONES. 

Linda  felt  dazed  by  the  marvel  of  it.  First  there 
was  the  letter  from  Mrs.  De  Jarnette,  offering  her 
the  position ;  then  one  from  her  aunt,  giving  her  con- 
sent to  its  acceptance ;  and  later  the  exciting  matter 
of  getting  ready  for  life  in  this  new  world. 

"Haven't  I  told  you  that  it's  better  to  be  born  lucky 
than  rich?  And  what's  to  become  of  a  poor  body 
that's  neither?  Anyway,  I'll  be  happy  because  you 
are   having  such   a   good   time." 

"Why,  Fannie !  You  little  goose !  you  have  the 
loveliest  home  in  the  world,  the  dearest  father  and 
mother,  and  everything." 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  do  have  the  most  precious  daddy, 
and  mother  is  simply  perfect ;  but  I  am  so  glad  you 
are  to  have  this  chance  of  a  beautiful  life.  Companion 
to  a  rich  old  lady,  travel,  the  luxuries  of  a  real  city — 
why,  it's  more  than  ever  like  the  pages  of  a  fairy 
tale!" 

"What  if  I  do  not  suit  the  work  or  that  kind  of 
life?" 

"You  can  very  easily  get  out  of  it," 

"And  be  the  same  girl  ?" 

"O,  now,  there  you  are !  'Take  the  good  the  gods 
provide  you.'  You  surely  were  born  for  a  tragedy 
queen.  If  you  fail  as  companion,  I  expect  to  see  you 
starring  as  Lady  Macbeth.     You  take  life  too  seri- 

49 


Un   tbt  iaanta!)ala0 


oiisly,  darling.  Be  frothy,  like  your  little  goose  of  a 
friend." 

"Frothy?"  and  Linda  bent  to  kiss  the  girl's  brow. 
"I  know  of  no  one  who  has  more  deep  and  genuine 
good  in  her,  more  unselfish  thought  for  others,  than 
you  have,  Fannie." 

The  commencement  time  passed  most  pleasantly  to 
Linda.  She  was  in  and  out  of  the  Everett  home,  al- 
ways a  petted  guest  and  unconsciously  fashioning  her- 
self to  a  fitness  for  the  social  life  which  was  so  differ- 
ent from  her  own  upbringing.  There  is  a  certain 
aptness  in  the  feminine  nature  which  catches  the  key- 
note of  little  things,  and  presto!  the  whole  woman 
is  rapidly  changing.  At  first  Linda  had  shown  a  con- 
scious awkwardness  of  manner,  a  hesitancy  as  to  what 
were  the  fitting  thing  to  do  ;  but  gradually  the  ease  of  a 
well-poised  nature  became  her  own  and  added  a  new 
charm  to  the  natural  grace  that  had  belonged  to 
her  in  the  secluded  mountain  home. 

She  had  written  to  Aunt  Sarah :  "I  will  come  home 
for  three  weeks.  Mrs.  De  Jarnette  gives  me  that 
time  before  I  join  her  on  the  way  to  Eagle's  Nest. 
Tell  Miss  Wells  I  hope  she  will  be  with  us  as  much 
as  possible.  I  can  never  be  grateful  enough  to  her 
for  all  she  has  done  for  me.  And  you,  Aunt  Sarah, 
I  think  of  you  so  often,  and  wish  that  I  could  lighten 
your  burdens  for  you.  If  Mrs.  De  Jarnette  is  satis- 
fied with  my  work,  it  may  be  in  my  power  to  do  more 
for  you  than  I  have  ever  been  able  to  do.  I  would 
be  ungrateful  if  I  did  not  hope  and  plan  for  you  after 
you  have  been  a  mother  to  me  all  these  years." 

When  the  train  pulled  up  at  Nantahala  there  was 
the  same  shabby  buggy  and  one  of  the  plow  mules, 
accompanied  by  a  boy  in  the  gawkiest  of  all  boy 
ages. 

50 


3n   tht  j^anta{)ala0 


"Lawdy,  Lindy !  I  was  erbout  to  tu'n  'roun'  an' 
go  back.  Didn't  think  you  wus  here."  The  lad's 
look  of  bewilderment  was  a  tribute  to  Linda's  im- 
proved appearance. 

The  girl  laughed  softly  and  kissed  her  cousin,  an 
act  whch  seemed  to  complete  his  stupefication.  "How 
are  you,  Bob?  and  how  are  Aunt  Sarah  and  the  girls, 
and  Bess  and  Muley  and  the  calves — O,  everything? 
I  am  in  such  a  hurry  to  see  them  all." 

"I'll  git  you  there  es  soon  es  I  can,  but  how  in 
thunder  do  you  expect  me  to  carry  that  there  bam?" 
He  motioned  toward  a  new  trunk  which  had  just  been 
dumped  onto  the  platform  along  with  a  tiny  tin- 
covered  one  that  had  sufficed  to  carry  the  girl's  clothes 
to  school. 

"That  can  be  left  here  a  day  or  two  till  it's  more 
convenient  for  some  of  you  to  bring  it  home.  My 
old  trunk  has  all  that  is  necessary  for  me  at  first." 

Ten  months  had  passed  since  the  two  had  seen 
each  other — ten  months  in  the  time  of  a  girl's  life 
when  changes  are  miraculously  quick.  Linda  had 
left  home  beautiful  but  unformed,  slender,  graceful 
except  when  hampered  by  self-consciousness ;  she  had 
come  back  a  girl  of  remarkable  beauty,  easy  and  gra- 
cious of  manner,  dressed  in  quiet,  good  taste,  and  yet 
in  a  way  that  seemed  to  emphasize,  not  hide,  the 
native  charm  of  her. 

"Whoopee,  Lindy,  where'd  you  git  that  dress  ?  You 
look  to  kill  in  it."  Bob  was  surprised  out  of  himself. 
His  phlegmatic  philosophy  had  not  encountered  so 
great  a  shock. 

Linda  laughed.  "I'm  awfully  glad  you  like  it, 
Bob.  I  was  afraid  you'd  think  I'm  putting  on  airs. 
You  see,  Mrs.  De  Jarnette  expects  this  sort  of  thing." 

"You  reckin  you're  going  to  Hke  that  job,  Lindy? 

51 


Sn  tbe  Bantabalas 


I  wouldn't  want  to  wait  on  no  rich  woman."  Bob 
gave  his  mule  a  mild  jerk  and  looked  at  Linda  as  if 
to  note  the  effect  of  his  words. 

The  girl  answered  with  grave  dignity:  "I  will  not 
be  expected  to  do  the  work  of  a  servant;  rather  I 
will  hardly  be  treated  as  a  servant.  But,  after  all, 
we  people  of  the  mountains  are  too  afraid  of  that  kind 
of  service.  We  are  proud  and  sensitive  to  a  fault. 
That's  true  of  us  the  world  over." 

It  was  late  in  May.  The  mountains  had  on  their 
most  deHcate  coloring — the  softest  shades  of  green, 
the  tenderest  grays,  and  over  all  that  mystic  haze  that 
gives  an  appealing  beauty  to  the  most  rugged  and 
cliff-scarred  landscape.  The  wonder  of  it  all  struck 
to  the  heart  of  the  girl.  "As  homesick  as  a  Switzer 
for  the  sight  of  the  mountains" — she  had  once  heard 
the  expression,  and  it  set  in  a  new  light  the  life  she 
had  led.  There  was  something  in  it,  after  all — some- 
thing that  made  for  strength  of  affection,  of  character. 
Did  the  unchangeable  sturdiness  of  the  hills  so  grow 
into  the  fiber  of  one's  being  that  he  could  not  alto- 
gether fashion  himself  differently? 

That  was  a  poor  home-coming,  one  might  say  who 
had  been  accustomed  to  a  larger  sort  of  life.  There 
were  few  words  of  welcome  and  but  little  show  of 
any  kind ;  but  Linda  noted  that  the  girls  and  smaller 
children,  along  with  their  mother,  had  donned  their 
"Sunday  clothes,"  and  even  Uncle  Bart  had  a  gentler 
tone  when  he  greeted  her.  There  was  something 
touching  in  the  supper.  The  best  cloth  had  been 
laid,  and  every  one  seemed  to  have  on  his  company 
manners ;  yet  the  best  in  everything  was  crude  or 
rough.  When  the  meal  was  over  Linda  offered  to 
help  with  the  cleaning  up. 

"No,"  said  her  Aunt  Sarah ;  "you  mustn't  mess  up 

52 


Sn   tU  laantafjalag 


that  pretty  dress.  Run  erlong  an'  look  erbout,  ef 
you  want  to,  while  me  'n'  the  girls  wash  the  dishes." 

Linda  was  glad  to  be  alone.  Out  under  the  starlit 
sky,  with  the  deepening  mist  hanging  around  the  sides 
of  the  Bald  and  filling  the  valley  with  a  sea  of  soft- 
ened light,  the  girl  fought  over  some  of  her  old 
battles.  The  sordidness  of  it  all !  After  the  comforts 
of  her  school  life  and  the  loveliness  of  her  friend's 
exquisitely  kept  home  how  poor  and  hopeless  seemed 
the  things  around  her !  She  was  thoroughly  miserable 
in  spite  of  her  great  love  for  her  aunt.  At  the  table 
the  rough  manners  of  her  uncle  and  the  boys  had 
grated  on  her  nerves.  The  spiritless  conversation  de- 
pressed her.  How  could  she  bear  it — this  poor  and 
lifeless  existence? 

Out  in  the  bright  world  she  had  left,  men  and 
women  lived;  they  did  not  simply  exist.  And  yet 
there  was  the  ingratitude  of  such  feelings.  She  must 
love  her  people — these  who  had  cared  for  her  in  her 
childhood  and  helpless  poverty.  O,  she  did  love  them ! 
She  could  not  be  so  untrue  as  to  forget. 

She  was  leaning  against  the  bars  at  the  old  gap, 
where  so  often  she  had  come  for  quiet  and  self- 
communion.  Linda's  memory  turned  to  that  after- 
noon— so  long  ago,  it  seemed — when  Miss  Wells  and 
her  pony  had  come  up  the  trail  along  the  hillside. 
Even  as  she  thought  of  it  the  sound  of  footsteps 
reached  her.  She  stood  alert,  every  nerve  quivering. 
Could  it  be?  Ah,  if  it  were  he.  how  should  she  greet 
him  ?  Love  is  not  love  that  questions  so  ?  Real  love 
should  be  full  of  self-surrender,  glad  to  yield,  proud 
that  one's  soul  has  come  upon  this  miracle  of  miracles. 
Surely  she  did  not  love,  and  all  these  months  she 
had  let  the  boy  follow  a  shadow !  She  must  be  cruel 
in  order  to  be  kind,  in  order  to  be  true. 

53 


In   tfte  j8antaf)ala0 


"O,  Linda,  is  it  you?"  He  held  her  hand  for  an 
instant.  "I  had  started  to  see  you.  I — I — couldn't 
wait." 

"How  are  you,  Harry?"  Her  voice  was  composed, 
though  a  stronger  light  might  have  shown  the  white- 
ness of  her  face.     "We  will  go  on  to  the  house." 

"No,  no,  Linda ;  just  a  minute  here.  I  reckon  you 
oughtn't  let  a  girl  see  what  a  fool  you  can  be,  but  I 
can't  help  it.  Father  advised  me  to  wait  a  day  or  so. 
He  says  a  woman  likes  independence."  There  was  a 
wistful  tone  in  his  voice,  and  he  waited. 

"It's  sometimes  hard  to  tell  what  a  woman  does  like, 
Harry."  The  kindness  she  felt  for  him  softened  every 
look  and  word  and  gave  him  courage. 

"I've  been  tryin'  mighty  hard  these  ten  months  to 
be  what  you'd  like,   Linda." 

She  could  not  bear  to  be  harsh  to  him  just  yet. 
After  the  struggle  he  had  been  making  it  would  be 
heartless  to  send  him  away.  A  little  longer  and  she 
would  tell  him.  "Did  you  like  vour  school  work, 
Harry?" 

"Fine,  I  was  lucky  enough  to  get  work  to  do  in 
Mr.  Harrison's  home.  It  was  Miss  Wells  that  did  it 
for  me." 

"Yes,   I  know." 

"Mr,  Harrison  and  his  wife  were  both  just 
as  good  to  me  as  could  be.  They  never  made  me  feel 
that  I  was  the  'hired  man,'  and  bein'  in  such  a  home 
has  been  worth  a  whole  heap  to  me,  I  had  the  use 
of  their  library,  and  found  out  from  them  what  a 
young  fellow  ought  to  read."  He  paused.  "O,  I'll 
make  a  man  of  myself  yet,  Linda.  I  must  do  it.  I 
will  do  it."  His  face  was  eager,  his  voice  trembling 
with  emotion.  There  was  a  moment's  quiet  as  they 
stood  there  with  the  solemn  night  enwrapping  them 

54 


Sn   tt)t  Ii5antaf)ala0 


and  the  calm  moonlight  lending  a  sense  of  awe  and 
mystery  to  the  great  mountains  about  them.  He 
held  out  his  hand.  "Many  a  time  in  these  months 
I've  looked  at  this  right  hand — it  don't  look  like  a 
gentleman's,  does  it? — and  thanked  God  for  the 
strength  that's  in  it.  And  when  I  had  done  my  best 
on  my  books  I  have  thanked  God  for  giving  me  brain 
enough  to  put  my  strength  to  some  use.  .  .  . 
Linda,  Linda,  haven't  you  got  a  word  for  me  ?" 

The  girl's  voice  was  low:  "Forgive  me,  Harry,  if 
I  am  doing  you  a  wrong.  I  can't  tell  you  how  Lve 
troubled  about — about  what  I  said  to  you.  Some- 
times Lve  felt  that  it  would  be  all  right;  that  you 
would  go  on  and  make  a  fine  man — as  I  believe  you 
will — and  that  I  would  finally  care  for  you  as  you 
deserve.  Then  again  I  would  doubt  myself  and 
would  make  up  my  mind  to  stop  it  all.  What  if  I 
should  let  things  stand  this  way  for  a  long  time,  and 
then  be  compelled  to  send  you  away?"  She  paused  as 
if  for  an  answer.  At  length  the  low,  gentle  voice 
went  on  again :  "Don't  you  know  you'd  have  a  right 
to  blame  me  then?" 

"Is    there — is    there — anybody   else?" 

For  an  instant  there  rose  before  the  girl's  mental 
vision  a  manly  figure  and  a  face  whereon  was  written 
the  record  and  promise  of  a  noble  life,  but  the  vision 
was  swiftly  put  aside.  "No ;  there's  no  one  else, 
Harry." 

"Then  I'm  willing  to  wait,  and  I  won't  blame  you 
if  I  have  to  give  you  up.  Let  me  work  on  with  hope 
before  me,  Linda." 

"I'm  afraid  of  myself,  Harry.  There's  a  line  of 
poetry  that  rings  through  my  ears  like  a  chime  of 
bells,  I  reckon — T  will  build  me  a  nest  on  the  great- 
ness of  God.'    When  I  think  of  that  I  want  to  be  true 

55 


In  tfje  iaanta|)ala0 


and  honest  all  the  way  through ;  then  I'm  afraid  to 
be  treating  you  this  way." 

"But  I'm  willing  to  take  the  chances.  Don't  shut 
me  out  yet,  Linda.  You  do  care  a  little  for  me,  or 
you  wouldn't  have  let  me  have  ground  to  stand  on." 

"O,  I  don't  know,  Harry.  I  don't  know  what  is  in 
my  nature.  There  are  two  separate  selves,  and  I 
envy  my  friend,  Fannie.  She  never  seems  to  be  in 
doubt,  but  goes  ahead  doing  exactly  the  right  thing 
without  seeming  to  think  about  it,  while  I  'doubt,  de- 
lay, and  dodder,'  as  she  says." 

"I'm  willin'  for  you  to  doubt  a  little  longer  if  you'll 
just  give  me  a  fightin'  chance,  an'  I'll  try  not  to  be  too 
foolish.  Father  says  for  me  to  take  care  and  not  be 
a  fool  for  the  want  of  sense,  as  that's  the  very  worst 
sort."  He  looked  quizzically  at  her,  and  both  smiled. 
The  situation  ^vas  cleared,  and  again  the  buoyancy 
of  youth  and  hope  filled  the  lad's  soul.  Before  him 
lay  the  world  and  its  possibilities ;  while  by  his  side, 
smiling  kindly  on  him,  was  the  girl  whose  charm 
had  been  his  guiding  star  while  he  worked  toward 
higher  things. 


56 


CHAPTER  VII. 

AT    EAGLES    NEST,    y^ 

As  the  carriage  wound  slowly  up /he  mountain  side, 
Linda  fell  silent.  She  watched  t/ie  panorama — the 
sweep  of  far-stretching  peaks,  Pitt's  Balsam  stand- 
ing out  boldly  against  the  softened  background  of 
misty  mountains,  the  valley  through  which  the  railway 
wound,  a  sinuous  thread,  while  the  train  seemed  a 
Lilliputian  object  moving  meekly  through  this  wide- 
spread grandeur. 

"Is  it  wonderful  to  you,  Linda?" 

"Yes;  O,  yes!" 

"I  never  tire  of  this  drive,  but  it  is  a  pleasure  to 
me  to  look  at  it  through  young  eyes.  You  have  a 
very  tell-tale  face,  Linda,  and  I  could  see  you  are 
enjoying  it." 

"I  thought  of  a  line  of  Milton's  where  he  speaks 
of  'hill  and  dale,  for  earth  hath  this  diversity  from 
heaven.' " 

"You  like  books ;  are  you  willing  to  give  up  regular 
school  work,  as  I  had  planned  if  you  came  to  me? 
Of  course  I  know  you  agreed  to  do  so,  but  wouldn't 
you  prefer  school?" 

"If  I  please  you  and  can  do  all  you  wish  me  to  do 
and  at  the  same  time  can  have  tutoring,  I  believe  that 
would  be  better  for  me.  I  love  Brevard  and  am 
sorry  to  give  up  the  school,  but  I  thought  that  travel 
and  the  use  of  books  might  do  me  as  much  good  as 

57 


Jn   tbt   Il5antaf)ala0 


text-book  training.  Mrs.  Eccles  advised  me  to  accept 
your  offer.  She  has  been  so  good  to  me.  I  have 
found  such  friends,  anyway.  I  don't  know  why,  but 
people  are   ready  to  be  kind." 

"You  have  much  in  your  favor.  There's  the  attrac- 
tion of  youth  in  the  first  place,  and  your  good  looks,  of 
course.  You  must  know  that  you  are  more  than 
ordinarily  good-looking,  my  dear.  I  have  all  a  French- 
woman's weakness  for  beauty,  and  I'll  own  that  if 
you  had  been  an  ugly  girl  I  would  not  have  been  at- 
tracted so  promptly.  Mind  you,  one  has  to  have 
other  qualities  to  hold  the  interest  or  affection  of 
people,  though.  You've  learned  that,  and  I  hope  you 
will  not  find  me  so  worldly  as  to  teach  you  that  too 
much  depends  on  your  looks.  There,  there !  no  offense 
was  intended.  I  like  you  very  much  in  that  suit.  It 
requires  an  absolutely  perfect  complexion  to  wear 
that  shade  of  gray.  What  have  you  for  evening  wear, 
Linda?" 

"Only  my  white  dresses.  They  are  rather  plain, 
but  I  like  them  best  that  way." 

"That  is  safe.  It's  better  for  a  young  girl  to  dress 
simply,  but — we  shall  see,"  and  Mrs.  De  Jarnette  lost 
sight  of  her  loved  scenery  as  she  gazed  dreamily  out, 
seeing  a  slender  girl  dressed  elegantly  and  with  ex- 
quisite taste. 

Eagle's  Nest  draws  to  itself  many  wealthy  pleasure 
or  health  seekers  from  the  Southern  cities.  Mrs.  De 
Jarnette  was  sure  of  finding  friends  or  old  acquaint- 
ances who,  like  herself,  had  learned  to  love  the  moun- 
tain eyrie.  After  the  guests  had  gathered  in  the  spa- 
cious parlors  just  before  the  evening  meal,  Mrs.  De 
Jarnette's  entrance  was  greeted  by  a  delighted  chorus : 
"Dear  Mrs.  De  Jarnette,  we  are  so  happy  to  see  you ! 
so  happy!"     "We  were  quite  in   despair  when  you 

58 


In  tbt  n^amafjalas 


failed  to  come  on  the  morning  hack."  "O,  we  were 
so  disappointed  !"'  "Indeed  we  were !"  And  the  ladies 
closed   around   the   two   newcomers. 

"I  am  delighted  to  be  back  in  the  Nest,  and  to  meet 
you  all  again.  Mrs.  Eubanks,  Mrs.  Holt,  ]\Iiss  Mor- 
ing,  Miss  Dupont — ah,  a  fine  delegation  from  Sa- 
vannah !  Are  you  just  from  the  city  ?  I've  been  away 
so  long,  you  know.  Allow  me :  this  is  a  young  friend 
of  mine  who  is  to  be  with  me  this  summer,  ladies. 
Miss  Graham." 

Linda  met  the  ordeal  with  composure.  If  there  was 
not  about  her  the  perfect  ease,  the  savoir-faire,  of 
the  society  woman,  there  was  none  of  the  obtrusive 
awkwardness  that  one  might  expect  from  a  backwoods 
girl. 

When  the  ladies  were  seated  again,  Linda  found 
that  she  had  been  separated  from  Airs.  De  Jarnette 
and  was  nearest  to  ]\Irs.  Eubanks,  a  portly  dowager 
dressed  in  an  immense  quantity  of  black  satin.  The 
air  of  opulent  sleekness,  the  sheen  of  her  rustling 
skirt,  the  glitter  of  jet,  the  gleam  of  her  bediamonded 
hand  all  conspired  to  humble  her  neighbor  and  make 
her  feel  particularly  slim  and  poor  and  meekly  clad. 

Linda  smiled  inwardly.  She  bethought  herself  of  a 
description  her  friend,  Fannie,  had  given  of  an  even- 
ing with  a  certain  chaperone:  "I  saw  it  was  to  be  the 
Fourth  all  over  again.  If  I  allowed  her,  she  would 
squelch  me  within  the  hour;  and  I  resolved  that  no 
British-looking  gorgon  should  conquer  me  without  a 
struggle.  It  was  dreadful,  but  she  will  never  attempt 
to  subdue  me  again.     She  simply  lets  me  alone !" 

"Miss  Graham,  if  I  caught  your  name  rightly?" 

"Yes ;    Linda    Graham." 

"The  Augusta  Graham.s?" 

"I  am  a  North  Carolinian." 

59 


3n   tf)e   jeantal)ala0 


"I  see.  You  must  belong  to  the  Cape  Fear  branch 
of  the  Grahams — fine  people  they  are." 

"I  am  from  western  North  Carolina,  and  have  no 
relations  that  I  know  of  in  the  Cape  Fear  section." 

"Ah !"    The  word  was  full  of  meaning. 

Linda  inferred  that  she  must  stand  and  deliver.  If 
not  to  the  Augusta  branch  or  to  the  Cape  Fear  branch, 
in  the  name  of  genealogical  decency,  to  what  branch 
did  she  belong?  "]\Iy  father  died  when  I  was  quite 
small,  and  I  know  nothing  of  his  people." 

"Yes,  yes,"  and  Mrs.  Eubanks  invited  further  con- 
fidence. She  settled  her  skirts  with  a  splendid  sweep, 
sank  back  in  her  chair,  and  began  waving  her  fan 
with  an  impressive  motion.  Mrs.  Eubanks  was  al- 
ways imposing.  When  she  began  to  speak,  one  felt 
that  here  was  wisdom  or  what  passes  as  its  equiva- 
lent— the  spirit  that  announces :  "When  we  die,  wis- 
dom will  die  with  us."  Suddenly  she  sat  erect  with 
an  air  of  awakened  vivacity.  "Ah,  Telfair  Ledroux ! 
I  didn't  know  he  was  expected." 

Two  gentlemen  had  come  in  and  were  standing 
near  the  big  fireplace.  The  taller  of  the  two  was 
dark,  slender,  distinguished-looking.  When  he 
caught  sight  of  the  Savannah  delegation,'  he  came 
across  the  room  toward  them.  Linda  supposed  that 
he  must  be  a  person  of  consideration,  if  one  might 
judge  from  the  flutter  his  appearance  excited.  He 
greeted  the  ladies  of  the  group  pleasantly,  and  turned 
to  the  young  stranger  when  Mrs.  De  Jarnette  called 
her  name.  Linda  looked  up  into  his  face.  His  eyes 
were  dark  and  penetrating.  She  had  never  seen  a 
more  handsome  man. 

When  the  music  of  the  Italian  band  struck  up  with 
the  swing  of  a  lively  waltz,  Linda  felt  as  if  in  a  dream 
world.     The  brilliancy   of   light   and   color,    the   ele- 

60 


In   tbt  Jj5antai)ala0 


gantly  dressed  women,  the  subdued  sound  of  well- 
bred  voices,  the  beauty,  the  very  fulness  of  life  stirred 
the  depths  of  her  soul.  She  felt  one  instant  that  all 
this  was  for  her — that  some  deep,  inward  strain  of 
blood  coming  down  to  her  from  a  far-off,  beauty- 
loving  ancestor  made  this  richness  hers.  Another 
moment  and  she  felt  herself  an  aHen.  Her  mind  went 
back  to  the  poor  home  which  had  sheltered  her  so 
long.  Instead  of  the  high-bred  people  about  her 
she  saw  the  crude,  unlettered  folk  with  their  defective 
English,  their  slovenly  dress,  and  their  slow-moving 
processes  of  thought.  A  sense  of  shame  swept  over 
her — shame  that  she  should  be  ashamed,  shame  be- 
cause she  inwardly  claimed  superiority  over  those 
whom  she  ought  to  love.  How  shallow  must  her 
nature  be  when  she  was  so  ready  to  turn  from  the 
old  life,  to  break  the  old  ties,  to  neglect  the  one  true 
soul  that  was  fighting  its  way  up  the  hill  of  difficulty 
for  her  sake !  In  imagination  she  set  her  lover  among 
these  men  and  women.  She  contrasted  his  simple 
speech  with  their  polished  language,  his  unformed 
manner  with  their  ease  and  self-possession. 

"Linda,  I've  been  telHng  Mr.  Ledroux  of  you  and 
of  my  plan.  Come  here,  my  dear."  Mrs.  De  Jar- 
nette's  companion  drew  a  chair  near  the  elder  lady 
and  handed  Linda  to  it  while  he  stood  looking  down 
on  the  two  during  a  brief  but  animated  conversation. 

]\Irs.  De  Jarnette  was  planning  a  Southern  trip  for 
herself  and  Linda  which  should  embrace  the  Mardi 
Gras  at  New  Orleans,  and  Mr.  Ledroux  was  giving 
her  a  deal  of  first-hand  information.  "It's  well  worth 
seeing,  Mrs.  De  Jarnette,  and  I  only  wonder  that 
you've  never  been  in  the  city  at  that  time.  We  South- 
erners are  becoming  too  much  like  our  New  England 
friends.  We  are  taking  life  too  seriously.  It's  good 
5  61 


Sn  tbt  s^timtahnlm 


to  pause  and  watch  this  big  hoHday  and  remind  our- 
selves that  there  is  something  to  Hve  for  besides  mak- 
ing money  or  reforming  the  world." 

"Ah,  there  you  are  again  with  that  skepticism  of 
yours  ?  Do  you  know,  Linda,  Mr.  Ledroux  claims  that 
we  ladies  are  all  playing  at  being  good  when  we  go 
'slumming'  or  when  we  take  up  serious  matters  in  our 
clubs.  He  seems  to  think  that  we  never  really  mean 
these  things." 

"Mrs.  De  Jarnette  never  pretends  anything,  Miss 
Graham.  She  is  always  in  earnest,  even  when  play- 
ing whist." 

"And  that  reminds  me;  do  you  know  the  game, 
Linda  ?" 

"I  don't  know  anything  of  cards." 

"We  will  teach  you  this  very  evening,  Miss  Graham. 
You  remember  Mrs.  Battle  in  Lamb's  delightful 
essay?  It  was  her  business  in  life  to  play  whist.  Mrs. 
De  Jarnette  is  another  such  devotee  of  the  old  game." 

"Yes,  indeed !  Give  me  a  'clear  fire,  a  clean  hearth, 
and  the  rigor  of  the  game' ;  but  I  have  no  patience  with 
the  modern  bridge  and  the  spirit  of  gambling  that 
drives  out  all  the  friendliness  of  play." 

After  the  supper  was  over  the  party  of  guests  fell 
into  groups  to  amuse  themselves  as  each  liked  best. 
With  an  elderly  gentleman  as  fourth,  Linda  was  soon 
being  initiated  into  the  mysteries  of  whist.  Opposite 
her  and  watching  her  with  keen  interest  was  Mr.  Le- 
droux, her  partner  for  the  evening.  And  as  he 
watched  the  young  girl  there  came  to  him  a  breath 
of  that  fragrant  youth  of  his  wherein  faith  in  womanly 
purity  and  worshipful  reverence  for  woman's  nobility 
had  been  as  life  to  him.  The  years  slipped  away  from 
this  blase  man  of  the  world,  and  again  for  the  mo- 
ment he  stood  at  life's  threshold  full  of  hope  and 

62 


Kn   tbt  Ii3amal)ala0 


kindly  affection  and  love  of  truth  and  all  true  things. 
Looking  into  the  girl's  clear  eyes,  life  once  more  held 
out  a  promise  of  higher  and  worthier  things.  When 
they  were  breaking  up  for  the  night,  he  made  oppor- 
tunity to  say  to  Linda,  unheard  of  others :  "Thank  you, 
Miss  Graham,  for  this  evening,  I  have  not  had  such 
a  pleasant  one  in  many  a  long  day." 

She  looked  into  his  eyes  and  knew  that  he  spoke 
truth.  Late  she  fell  asleep  with  her  young  heart 
deeply  stirred,  and  for  the  first  night  since  Mrs. 
Eccles  had  repeated  the  line  she  forgot  the  words 
which  had  served  to  wing  her  thoughts  heavenward: 
"I  will  build  me  a  nest  on  the  greatness  of  God." 


63 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A  RIFT  IN  THE  LUTE. 

Companionship  with  this  man  stirred  Linda's  brain 
to  unwonted  activity.  The  knowledge  of  the  world 
that  he  possessed,  his  acquaintance  with  literature, 
his  brilliant  intellect  gave  charm  and  color  to  his 
conversation.  He  had  traveled  in  the  old  countries ; 
and  to  the  school-girl  his  familiar  talk  of  Ayrshire 
and  of  Abbotsford,  the  Alps,  the  Rhine  gave  a 
glamour  of  romance  to  the  days  as  they  swiftly  passed. 

There  were  long  talks  on  the  wide  porches  while 
the  misty  moonlight  touched  mountain  and  valley 
with  solemn  beauty.  There  were  long  walks  in  the 
woods  while  the  afternoon  sun  shone  glimmeringly 
through  the  leafage.  And  always  for  Linda  there 
was  the  stir  of  her  intellect  awakening  to  a  wider 
world,  while  for  the  man  was  the  renewing  of  a  half- 
dead  spiritual  nature.  Without  any  conscious  effort 
on  his  part,  the  cynic  view  began  to  soften.  His  talk 
took  on  a  more  earnest  note.  He  wished  to  stand 
well  in  those  young  eyes  that  looked  out  on  life  in 
trustful  innocence.  It  was  worth  something  to  him  to 
feel  that  the  young  girl  was  drawn  to  him  without 
any  thought  of  the  material  advantages  wdiich  had 
caused  so  many  women  to  throw  themselves  in  his 
way  and  to  try  every  allurement  to  win  him. 

Mrs.  De  Jarnette  looked  on  in  silence.  If  she  was 
aware  that   Mr.   Ledroux  was  marking  her  protege 

64 


3n   tfje   laantabalast 


by  any  special  attention,  she  gave  no  sign.  Mean- 
while she  was  keenly  alert.  She  liked  the  son  of  her 
old-time  friend,  and  yet — he  must  be  careful.  She 
would  allow  no  trifling.  She  realized  how  delicate 
the  situation  was.  A  wrong  word,  and  Linda  might 
be  driven  from  her  with  a  wounded  spirit.  A  tact- 
less move,  and  Ledroux  might  turn  that  quiet  scorn 
of  his,  that  ready  cynicism  against  her  weak  defenses. 
She  must  wait  and  watch  till  the  right  moment. 

One  afternoon  Linda  read  Mrs.  De  Jarnette  to 
sleep,  softened  the  light  for  her,  then  took  a  new 
magazine  and  sought  one  of  her  resorts — a  hammock 
at  a  corner  of  the  veranda  overlooking  the  Richland 
Valley.  It  was  the  usual  rest  hour  for  the  ladies  of 
the  hotel,  and  she  was  not  likely  to  have  any  inter- 
ruption. She  lay  resting  for  a  few  moments,  her 
arm  thrown  above  her  head  and  her  eyes  looking  out 
along  the  wide  sweep  of  the  valley.  She  was  think- 
ing, thinking — always  of  the  one  man.  His  dominant 
power  asserted  itself  in  absence.  What  must  she 
do?  To  crowd  him  back  she  opened  the  magazine, 
but  the  leaves  fell  apart  just  where  his  hand  had  rested 
that  morning.  He  had  cut  the  leaves  for  her,  and, 
glancing  along  its  pages,  had  read  two  or  three  lines 
of  verse,  then  turned  on  with  a  half-contemptuous 
remark  about  present-day  poetry.  She  found  the  verse 
and  read: 


"Two  Loves. 

"A  storm-driven  flower  falls  torn  at  her  feet, 
A  flower  blood-red,  by  torrid  suns  burned. 

The  maiden  bends  not — ah !  loving  is  sweet, 
But  woe  to  the  love  that  is  spurned ! 

65 


Sn   tbt  iaantai)ala0 


"A  wind-blown  flower  falls  light  at  her  feet, 
A  flower  cool-white,  by  heaven's  airs  fanned. 

The  maiden  bends  low — two  flowers  that  meet, 
A  rose  and  a  lily-like  hand." 

She  saw  nothing  in  the  lines  to  arouse  the  scoffing 
spirit;  and  again,  as  many  times  before,  she  deter- 
mined to  overcome  the  feeling — this  fascination  that 
held  in  bond  the  highest  and  best  of  her  nature.  Girl 
as  she  was,  and  untutored  in  the  world's  ways,  she 
knew  that  something  true  within  her  was  rebelling 
against  this  man's  power.  Finally,  as  she  lay  with 
her  face  turned  toward  the  mountains,  a  great  peace 
came  over  her ;  the  dear  and  oft-repeated  line  soothed 
her  as  of  old,  the  thought  of  her  boy  lover  stirred 
her  better  nature  to  high  appreciation,  and  in  such 
mood  sleep  fell  upon  her. 

A  little  later  a  light  step  sounded  along  the  ve- 
randa and  Telfair  Ledroux  stood  looking  down  on 
the  sleeping  girl.  The  magazine  lay  open  at  the  bit 
of  verse,  and  he  read  the  lines  again.  Gently  dropping 
a  flower  in  Lir^la's  lap  and  taking  one  long  look 
at  the  beauty  of  her,  he  turned  and  left  the  porch. 
As  he  struck  into  the  woods  on  the  mountain  side, 
he  looked  himself  in  the  face  and  questioned  his 
heart.  Almost  he  cursed  the  conventions  that  allow 
a  man  to  waste  the  innocence  and  moral  health  of  his 
youth  and  still  be  sought  after  as  something  worthy 
to  be  won.  He  had  looked  into  the  eyes  of  women 
who  knew  his  record,  and,  finding  no  condemnation 
there,  had  learned  to  value  lightly  the  smiles  of  all 
women.  But  now — ah,  if  he  could  stand  before  this 
white-souled  girl  and  feel  himself  worthy  of  her  love, 
the  world  might  go  its  way!  What  matter  to  him 
that  she  was  poor  and  of  lowly  origin?    He  could  lift 

66 


In   the  Bantafjalas! 


her  to  his  own  social  level — he  could,  but  did  he  wish 
to? 

Linda's  first  sensation  on  awakening  was  one  of  in- 
describable pleasure.  The  flower  that  lay  in  her  lap 
had  its  message.  During  their  walks  he  had  shown 
her  this  flower  and  that,  giving  her  interesting  bits  of 
information  about  them.  Lately  they  had  spoken  of 
a  certain  orchid.  This  must  be  the  one.  She  could 
not  be  indifferent  to  his  delicately  shown  thought  of 
her.  O,  surely  he  was  good  and  true  and  noble! 
She  at  least  had  the  right  to  value  his  friendship. 
It  was  vanity  in  her  that  took  warning  and  fancied 
anything  else.  As  she  lay  there,  with  the  flower  in 
her  hand,  the  sound  of  low  voices  forced  itself  into 
her  consciousness. 

"There  is  no  mistaking  the  fact.  He  is  fooHshly, 
absurdly  in  love  with  her,  and  I  can't  imagine  what 
the  outcome  will  be." 

"I  don't  understand  it.  How  can  a  man  of  his 
social  position  do  such  an  outre  thing?  We  know 
there  is  no  bluer  blood  in  the  South  than  Telfair 
Ledroux  has,  and  the  women  of  his  family  have 
always  been  so  fine,  so  beautiful  in  manner." 

Linda   recognized  the   voice   of   Mrs.   Eubanks. 

"O,  as  to  that,  I  think  the  girl  has  really  nice 
manners.  She  certainly  is  bright  and  has  a  good 
deal  of  self-possession." 

".You  mean  mountain  brass."  Mrs.  Eubanks  spoke 
in  a  way   that  suggested  personal   spite. 

"I  don't  agree  with  you.  I  think  the  girl  is  a  lady ; 
and  it  would  be  a  pity  for  her  to  waste  herself,  her 
youth,  and  her  innocence  on  such  a  man  as  Telfair 
Ledroux." 

In  Linda's  soul  a  storm  was  raging.  They  were 
speaking  of  her — the  "mountain  brass"  fixed  that  be- 

67 


In   tfje   il^antatalasi 


yond  a  doubt.  The  cruelty  of  it!  that  she  should  be 
so  hardly  dealt  with  because  she  could  stand  squarely 
with  her  fellow-beings  in  the  belief  that  inward 
strength  counts  for  more  than  outer  circumstances ! 
The  deep-seated  pride  of  the  mountain  character 
pricked  her  to  the  core.  With  no  effort  at  silence 
she  gathered  her  belongings  and  left  the  corner  of  the 
veranda.  No  dame  of  the  Ledroux  race  could  have 
passed  with  a  more  queenly  air  than  this  young  girl  as 
she  swept  by  the  open  window  near  which  the  two 
ladies  sat, 

"Ah!"  And  Miss  Moring  looked  at  Mrs.  Eubanks 
with  a  quizzical  smile. 

"Dear  me!  I  didn't  mean — this  is  most  unfortu- 
nate !"  murmured  the  dowager. 

After  this,  Linda's  manner  toward  Mrs.  Eubanks 
was  noticeable  for  its  ultra  politeness.  The  older 
lady  was  nonplused.  She  could  not  apologize.  The 
subject  seemed  a  closed  one.  At  times  she  made 
effort  to  overcome  this  barrier  that  stood  between  the 
girl  and  herself,  and  it  was  with  inward  wrath  that 
she  saw  how  slight  an  impression  her  own  unbending 
made.  Even  if  Mrs.  Eubanks  failed  to  realize  the 
fact  that  real  ladyhood  is  that  fine  essence  which 
emanates  from  a  woman's  spirit,  she  was  all  the  more 
anxious  to  hold  to  the  outward  act,  and  she  felt 
ashamed  because  a  careless  moment  had  betrayed  her 
into  inexcusable  rudeness  of  speech. 

Unconsciously  Linda  threw  into  her  intercourse 
with  Mr.  Ledroux  a  new  touch  of  dignity — almost  of 
hauteur,  it  seemed  to  the  man — but  as  the  girl  with- 
drew herself  from  him  he  followed.  Just  when  mat- 
ters were  at  this  stage,  a  letter  from  Fannie  Everett 
came,  announcing  the  fact  that  she  and  her  uncle, 
Dr.  Montague,  would  follow  soon  for  a  few  days' 

68 


In   tht  Bmtabala^ 


visit,  especially  for  the  sake  of  being  with  Linda 
again  before  Fannie's  school  year  should  open. 

"All  the  world  loves  a  lover,"  and  he  is  a  rare 
person  who  will  not  turn  aside  to  watch  the  byplay 
that  goes  on  where  the  world-old  story  is  being  told. 
The  arrival  of  Linda's  two  friends  caused  a  stir  of 
interest  in  the  hotel. 

"It's  better  than  a  good  play  on  the  boards," 
drawled  a  Freshman  who  was  out  for  his  first  trip. 
"Stage-setting  is  all  that's  needed.  Enter  leading 
lady,  gentleman  madly  in  love.  Things  run  smoothly, 
then  friction,  lady  offish,  queenly  air,  and  all  that. 
Enter  second  lover,  psychological  moment.  Jealous 
lover  precipitates  things.     Don't  you  see  ?" 

"You  don't  suppose  Miss  Graham  is  capable  of 
planning  a  thing  like  this,  Mr.  Burrell.  O,  no,  she  is 
too  young,  too  much  of  an  ingenue,"  Mrs.  Eubanks 
spoke  with  marked  emphasis. 

"Miss  Graham  plan?  I  never  thought  of  such  a 
thing,"  and  the  young  fellow  forgot  to  drawl.  "She 
seems  to  me  the  proudest  girl  I  ever  saw.  I  don't 
believe  there's  a  man  living  she'd  lift  a  finger  to  bring 
to  her.  She  doesn't  have  to  plan.  The  Lord  did 
all  that  eighteen  or  twenty  years  ago." 

"I  don't  think  there's  any  symptom  of  a  love  affair 
between  Dr.  Montague  and  Miss  Graham.  Miss 
Everett  is  devoted  to  her  friend,  and  naturally  the 
whole  family  would  be  interested  in  the  young  lady." 
The  speaker  was  one  of  those  happily  constituted 
women  whose  very  voice  serves  as  a  lubricant  for 
social  machinery. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  so  much  about  that,  but  I  do 
know  your  handsome  Georgian  seems  hard  hit.  A 
man  can't  blame  him.  What  a  beauty  she  is,  and  she 
has  sense  besides !" 

69 


3n   tfte  iaanta|)ala0 


"How  interesting!  A  triple  rivalry,  is  it?"  Mrs. 
Eubanks  waved  her  fan  with  calm  dignity. 

"You  don't  think  a  youngster  like  myself  could 
stand  a  ghost  of  a  chance  when  such  a  man  as  Le- 
droux  is  concerned?  He  and  Miss  Graham  make  the 
handsomest   couple    I    ever   saw." 

The  two  girls  were  together  constantly.  Fannie  had 
only  a  few  days  to  spend  with  her  friend,  and  they 
were  making  much  of  the  time.  Mrs.  De  Jarnette 
insisted  that  she  could  take  absolute  care  of  herself 
during  the  girl's  visit,  and  this  left  Linda  free.  They 
had  not  been  together  long  before  Fannie  discerned 
that  her  friend  was  undergoing  some  kind  of  strain. 
Beneath  the  bright,  loving  talk  there  was  an  under- 
current that  broke  the  perfect  sympathy  of  their  in- 
tercourse. 

Long  ago  Linda  had  told  Fannie  of  the  half-prom- 
ise she  had  given  her  boy  lover,  but  the  matter  had 
been  little  discussed  between  them.  The  older  girl's 
natural  reticence  was  not  broken  into  by  any  show 
of  curiosity  on  the  part  of  her  sympathetic  friend. 
During  the  days  in  the  Nest  Linda  had  mentioned  the 
matter  only  by  saying  that  Harry  was  planning  a  year 
at  the  university. 

One  morning  the  two  wandered  down  the  moun- 
tain side  and  stopped  to  rest  at  a  spring  that  flows 
from  underneath  a  splendid  growth  of  trees.  Here 
they  sat  long,  resting  and  talking.  The  lonely  girl, 
orphaned,  homeless  except  for  the  charity  of  one  poor 
relative,  felt  that  she  must  open  her  heart  to  this  dear 
friend.  And  yet  she  knew  not  how  to  confide  in  her. 
Many  things  disturbed  her  young  heart.  Somehow 
the  outer  world  did  not  seem  so  bright  as  from  the 
little  farm-house  back  in  the  Nantahalas. 

Finally  there  came  a  moment  of  silence  between  the 

70 


3n   tht  Ji5anta!)ala0 


girls.  Fannie  laid  her  hand  gently  on  her  friend's : 
"Linda,  Linda,  something  troubles  you.  Can  I  help 
you,  dear?    You  know  how  I  love  you." 

Linda  lifted  the  girl's  hand  and  kissed  it.  "I 
have  wanted  to  talk  to  you,  but  it  is  hard.  There's 
so  much  and  I  can  say  so  little.  I  cannot  put  it  into 
words." 

Fannie  waited.     "Is  it  Harry?"  at  length  she  said. 

"Yes,  Harry,  and — and — O,  I  can't  talk  of  these 
things." 

"There,  there,  darling!  You  needn't  say  a  word. 
You  know  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart,  and  I  sym- 
pathize with  you  whatever  the  trouble  is." 

"Fd  like  to  tell  you— much,  but " 

"Would  it  be  impertinent  for  me  to  ask  if  Mr.  Le- 
droux  has  anything  to  do  with  your  trouble?  You 
know  I  have  been  hearing  the  gossip  of  the  hotel, 
and  they  say  he  seems  very  much  in  love  with  you." 

"I  don't  think  so.  Perhaps  I  am  something  of 
a  novelty  to  him  with  my  country  ways  and  ignorance 
of  his  world." 

"You  shall  not  talk  that  way,  dear  girl.  Any  man 
ought  to  love  you ;  but,  Linda,  I  don't  like  him. 
He  is  quite  the  handsomest  man  I  ever  saw,  and  his 
talk  is  charming,  but  there's  something — I  don't  know 
what — that  repels  me.    You  know  the  old  lines: 

"  'I  do  not  like  you.  Dr.  Fell, 
The  reason  why  I  cannot  tell, 
But  this  I  know  full  well : 
I  do  not  like  you,  Dr.  Fell.' " 

"Yes — yes,"  Linda  caught  a  quick  breath.    "But  do 
you  see  the  hack?    There  in  the  bend  of  the  road?" 
"Yes,  what  of  it?" 

71 


In  tU  Ii5antaf)ala0 


"I  believe — O,  Fannie,  it  must  be  Harry !  I  never 
guessed  he'd  come here." 

The  driveway  passes  by  the  spring.  The  girls  were 
clearly  visible  to  the  occupants  of  the  hack,  and  as  it 
came  nearer  a  young  man  sprang  out,  and  in  a  moment 
was  shaking  hands  with  Linda.  "This  is  my  friend 
Fannie  Everett,  Harry.  You  will  be  good  friends,  I 
am   sure." 

"I'm  on  my  way  to  the  university,  and  found  that  I 
could  come  up  for  a  few  hours  without  putting  things 
out.  I  couldn't  resist  the  temptation,"  he  looked  a 
little   wistfully   at   Linda. 

"The  trip  up  from  town  is  well  worth  making," 
volunteered  Fannie. 

The  walk  from  the  spring  was  made  pleasant  by 
friendly  talk.  The  young  man  had  hesitated  to  set 
himself  in  comparison  with  the  city-bred  people  of 
the  hotel,  but  as  relf-reliance  and  manliness  had  grown 
apace  in  his  nature  he  had  realized  that  success  would 
be  his  if  he  could  but  take  hold  of  things  wnth  an  iron 
grip.  To  win  Linda  he  must  show  himself  every  inch 
a  man,  and  who  but  a  weakling  would  be  kept  from 
the  sight  of  his  loved  one  by  the  cowardly  fear  that 
he  might  appear  awkward  or  country-bred?  He  was 
going  into  debt  for  a  part  of  the  year's  schooling,  but 
the  old  father  on  the  farm  had  denied  himself  of 
certain  needed  things  in  order  that  the  boy  should 
have  his  chance.  Thus  Harry  was  not  going  in  any 
mendicant  style  or  spirit. 

On  the  crest  of  Junaluska.  just  before  you  reach 
the  hotel,  there's  a  bit  of  greensward  with  trees  flank- 
ing it,  and  underneath  these  rustic  seats  had  been 
placed.  Here  one  might  rest  and  look  out  on  the 
far  sweep  of  mountains,  peak   after  peak,   with  the 

72 


Sn   tbt  il^anta!)a!a0 


valley  lying  between,  and  imagine  the  spot  a  fit  tryst- 
ing  place  for  beauty-loving  lovers  of  old  Greece. 

"Let  us  rest  here  awhile,  shall  we  not?"  asked 
Fannie,  and  in  a  few  moments  made  excuse  and  left 
the  two. 

Harry  turned  to  Linda,  and  all  his  soul  shone 
through  his  honest  eyes.  "Have  I  done  wrong,  a 
foolish  thing,  in  coming,  Linda?" 

"O,  no,  Harry."  Inwardly  she  felt  a  wave  of  repul- 
sion against  herself.  She  looked  at  his  strong,  sun- 
tanned face  with  its  square  jaw  and  firm  mouth,  and 
marveled  that  she  could  so  often  doubt  herself  where 
Harry  was  concerned.  Here  was  the  promise  of  a  real 
and  potent  manhood,  here  was  the  steadfast  loyalty  of 
an  earnest  and  sincere  nature,  one  ready  to  keep  step 
with  her  in  every  effort  to  live  a  life  of  truth,  of  right- 
doing,  of  God-serving.  And  her  heart  was  being 
tossed  this  way  and  that  because  a  pair  of  dark  and 
brilliant  eyes  had  looked  love  at  her,  because  an  elo- 
quent tongue  had  charmed  her  quickened  brain,  be- 
cause a  worldly  man,  all  body  and  intellect,  had  singled 
her  out  among  other  women  for  passing  notice. 

"I  am  glad  you  came." 

He  looked  into  her  tender  eyes  and  his  heart  beat 
with  proud,  tumultuous  joy. 


73 


CHAPTER  IX. 

MISS   MCGREGOR,   GENEALXDGIST. 

As  the  season  waned  a  new  arrival  became  an  ob- 
ject of  special  interest  to  the  guests  in  Eagle's  Nest. 
One  afternoon  in  late  August  the  hack  brought  in  a 
lady  who  wrote  boldly  across  the  register :  "Miss 
McGregor,  Genealogist."  Later  the  clerk  commented 
on  it  to  the  group  of  men  gathered  near  the  big  fire- 
place. 

"I  suppose  we  are  the  greatest  race  of  snobs  on  the 
face  of  the  earth,"  remarked  one  of  the  gentlemen. 

"But  isn't  this  craze  for  family  a  passing  mood  in 
our  democracy?  After  the  Daughters  and  Dames  get 
things  adjusted,   I   guess  we'll   settle  down  quietly." 

"Not  while  there's  a  Scotchman  alive  or  a  South- 
erner left  to  tell  the  tale." 

The  listeners  smiled. 

"We  ought  to  get  Mrs.  Eubanks  and  the  genealogist 
together ;  the  result  might  be  interesting,"  suggested 
the  first  speaker. 

Miss  McGregor  proved  expansive.  That  evening 
a  company  of  ladies  gathered  in  front  of  the  blazing 
fire  which  is  so  necessary  to  the  comfort  of  the  South- 
ern guests  who  are  unaccustomed  to  the  chill  of  the 
mountain  night. 

"I  would  think  your  work  is  very  interesting,  Miss 
McGregor."  The  dowager's  deep  voice  filled  the 
parlor. 

74 


In   the  J]^antal)a!a0 


"It  is  fascinating,  Mrs.  Eubanks.  When  it  became 
necessary  for  me  to  make  my  living,  I  cast  about  some 
time  before  thinking  of  this.  I  consider  it  a  lucky 
hit  that  my  mind  was  turned   to  the  work." 

"And  are  you   a  native  of   Baltimore?" 

"O,  no !  I  am  a  Carolinian,  but  found  it  necessary 
to  live  in  a  large  city,  where  I  could  have  access  to 
fuller  records.  Baltimore  has  proved  a  happy  hunt- 
ing ground."  The  genealogist  beamed  on  her 
listeners. 

"Your  patrons  are — from  what  class  largely?" 

"The  D.  A.  R.'s  have  brought  me  in  some  fine  cases. 
Of  course  the  different  organizations  among  the 
women  of  America  have  furnished  patrons,  but  you 
would  be  surprised  at  the  number  of  men  who  are 
searching  for  a  coat  of  arms." 

"I  thought  it  was  the  ladies  who  care  for  that  sort 
of  thing,"  ventured  one  of  the  guests. 

"Ah,  don't  deceive  yourself !  You  know  the  peasant 
Carlyle  claims  that  back  of  every  great  man  there's 
another  great  man,  even  though  it  be  a  silent  one; 
and  I  assure  you  that  my  most  generous  fees  have 
been  from  men — the  new  rich,  who  found  some  an- 
cestor of  whom  they  could  be  proud." 

Just  at  this  point  two  ladies  came  in  and  drew 
within   the  radius  of   the  group. 

"Mrs.  De  Jarnette,  Miss  Graham,  Miss  McGregor," 
volunteered  a  lady. 

The  genealogist  responded  pleasantly,  then  turned 
to  the  young  lady:  "Miss  Graham?     A  fine  Scotch 


name." 


Linda  bowed  slightly. 

"I  am  Scotch,  you  know,  and,  like  Rob  Roy,  am  on 
my  native  heath  when  the  genealogy  of  a  clan  is 
under  discussion.  Are  you  a  native  of  this  State?" 

75 


Iln   tbt  Bantaljalas 


"Yes,  a  native  of  western  Carolina.  I  know  little 
of  my  genealogy,"  the  girl  answered  with  a  quiet  dig- 
nity. 

"I  assure  you  it's  a  fine  name,  my  dear  young 
lady.  Much  of  the  poetry  and  romance  of  'Auld 
Scotia'  clusters  round  the  name  of  Graham ;  and  in 
America,  as  I  have  learned  by  close  inquiry,  the  clan 
has  held  its  own.  I  congratulate  you  on  belonging 
to  it." 

"If  I  have  read  Scotch  history  aright,  the  Grahams 
could  be  very  cruel,"  answered  Linda. 

"Cruel,  but  never  weak;  and  the  cruelty  was  a 
result  of  the  times,  not  so  much  a  matter  of  tempera- 
ment, I  dare   say." 

"I  can  hardly  understand  the  clannishness  of  the 
Scotch  nature." 

"It  arose  at  first  from  the  fact  that  each  family 
had  to  fight  for  its  own  existence ;  then  later  it  be- 
came a  second  nature.  But  whatever  the  cause,  this 
clannishness,  this  pride  of  birth  has  been  a  great 
factor  in  the  making  of  the  Scotch.  It  has  stood 
them  in  good  stead  through  many  a  strain.  You  know 
the  lines: 

"  'Our  bootless  host  of  high-born  beggars, 
Macleans,  Mackenzies,  and  Macgregors.' 

We  do  not  bend  to  the  power  of  money." 

The  next  morning  Linda  was  at  her  favorite  corner 
on  the  veranda  when  Miss  McGregor  came  and  sat 
down  beside  her.  "Miss  Graham,  will  you  think  me 
impertinent  if  I  ask  you  a  few  questions  touching 
your  father's  family?  You  know  that's  in  my  line 
of  business."  Miss  McGregor  spoke  apologetically. 
Linda  looked  her  full  in  the  face.     In  the  girl's 

76 


In  tbt  ii^antaf)ala0 


deep  eyes  was  proud  questioning.     She  seemed  to  be 
searching  the  depths  of  the  woman's  soul. 

"It  is  not  idle  curiosity,"  Miss  McGregor  answered 
the  look.  "I  have  had  occasion  to  inquire  into  the 
Grahams  of  the  South,  and  I  have  a  special  reason 
for  my  interest." 

"I  do  not  remember  my  father  or  mother.  My  aunt 
has  told  me  very  little.  I  think  she  never  knew  my 
father's  family,  and  my  mother  died  at  my  birth." 

"Is  there  no  one  to  whom  I  could  write?  Do 
you  object  to  giving  me  your  aunt's  address?" 

"My  aunt  is  not  accustomed  to  letter  writing.  She 
may  not  feel  free  to  write  to  a  stranger." 

"There  may  be  something  in  the  matter  important 
enough  to  convince  both  of  you.    Let  me  try  her." 

For  some  time  there  had  rested  over  Linda's  heart 
a  sickening  shadow — a  fear  that  made  her  draw  back 
from  any  inquiries  about  her  father.  Her  aunt  was 
naturally  reticent,  and  seldom  mentioned  the  girl's 
mother.  Once  in  childhood  Linda  had  asked  some 
question  that  brought  a  look  from  her  aunt  more 
expressive  than  words  could  have  been.  The  sensi- 
tive child  never  repeated  the  attempt  to  enter  her 
mother's  past,  and  as  the  years  went  by  there  had 
grown  up  the  fear  that  some  shame  belonged  to  that 
past. 

She  longed  yet  dreaded  to  know.  If  this  woman 
could  bring  light  and  cheer  into  that  dark  corner  of 
her  soul,  how  thankful,  how  deeply  grateful  she  would 
be !  And  yet  good  men  and  women  had  borne  the 
shame  before.  How  could  she  reconcile  this  proud 
soreness  with  her  belief  that  character  is  the  golden 
test?  "I  will  build  me  a  nest  on  the  greatness  of 
God,"  not  on  the  blood  of  father  or  mother.  But 
if Ah,  there  could  be  no  wrong  in  referring  Miss 

6  77 


In  tht  Il5antaf)ala0 


McGregor  to  her  aunt;  and  she  gave  the  desired 
address. 

A  week  later  the  genealogist  came  to  Linda's  bed- 
room door.  There  was  about  her  an  air  of  suppressed 
excitement  as  she  asked  Linda  to  follow  her. 

In  Miss  McGregor's  room  the  bed  was  strewn  with 
papers.  The  genealogist  turned  them  about,  talking 
rapidly  the  while :  "Since  speaking  to  you  I  have  had 
this  matter  sent  me  from  home.  Moreover,  I've  been 
busy  getting  material  from  other  sources.  Here  is  a 
letter  from  your  aunt,  in  which  she  tells  me  of  your 
mother's  marriage.     Let  me  read." 

In  simple,  direct  words  the  writer  told  of  her  sis- 
ter's going  to  Atlanta  as  waitress  in  a  boarding  house 
kept  by  a  lady  who  had  met  the  young  girl  during  a 
summer  spent  in  western  North  Carolina.  Her  sister 
had  come  home  sick,  heart-broken ;  had  lived  only  a 
few  months,  dying  at  her  baby's  birth.  "I  know  my 
sister  told  me  the  truth.  She  had  been  married ;  but 
it  all  sounded  like  it  couldn't  be  so,  an'  I  never  did  tell 
folks.  If  it's  any  good  to  Lindy,  I  don't  mind  writing 
it,  though.  Her  husband  was  in  a  school  studying  to 
be  a  dentist,  an'  they  were  married  in  secret.  Then 
John  Graham  was  taken  sick  all  at  once,  an'  when 
they  telegraphed  to  his  father  the  boy  was  raving 
and  never  did  know  anything  more.  Mary  went 
to  the  other  Mr.  Graham  an'  told  him  about  their 
bein'  married,  but  he  got  mad  an'  wouldn't  believe  a 
word,  and  there  was  no  way  of  proving  it.  The 
preacher  that  married  them  in  South  Carolina  had 
gone  out  o'  the  country,  and  she  didn't  know  how  to 
do,  anyway,  and  so  she  come  home  to  me.  I  did  the 
best  I  could  for  her,  but  it  was  not  much.  She  died 
with  her  heart  broken.     Somehow  Lindy  got  the  no- 

78 


In   tbt  Il5antal)alas 


tion  in  her  head  that  her  father  died  when  she  was 
a  baby,  and  I  didn't  have  the  face  to  tell  her  it 
was  before  she  was  born.  I  knew  so  little  and  could 
prove  nothing,  so  I  just  let  it  go  and  did  not  talk 
about  it." 

"Now  here.  IMiss  Graham,  is  a  family  record  of  the 
Georgia  Grahams  showing  a  break  at  the  name  of 
James^  Graham's  oldest  son.  Last  year  I  had  occasion 
to  visit  Augusta  in  the  interest  of  a  Graham  client, 
and  there  met  the  man  who,  I  take  it,  is  your  grand- 
father." There  was  silence  for  a  space.  "Do  you 
grasp  that.  Miss  Graham  ?  I  have  a  letter  here  from 
the  gentleman,  now  an  old  man,  in  which  he  says 
that  he  would  be  glad  to  find  it  true  that  his  son 
left  a  child." 

"How  can  I  reconcile  that  with  the  treatment  he 
gave  my  mother?  I  refuse  to  believe  in  him — in  his 
goodness." 

"But,  my  dear  young  lady,  you  must  yield  some- 
thing to  the  father's  pride.  It  must  have  been  a  blow 
to  him  to  have  his  son  accused  of  doing  a  treacherous 
thing,  deceiving  him  in  so  vital  a  matter.  Perhaps 
the  father  had  high  ambitions  for  him.  The  Grahams 
usually   stand  at  the  very  front,   remember." 

"He  must  be  cruel.  I  can't  see  it  any  other  way. 
And  my  mother  so  young  and  ignorant  of  the  world ! 
I  could  not  bear  to  meet  him,  even  if  he  should 
prove  to  be  my  grandfather."  There  was  nothing 
melodramatic  about  the  girl's  manner — only  a  quiet, 
self-restrained  forcefulness  that  carried  conviction 
with  it. 

"You  know  what  this  might  mean  to  you?  He  is 
very  wealthy,  an  aristocrat  of  the  aristocrats.  Your 
whole  life  would  be  affected  by  this  fact.     If  I  am 

79 


In   t!)e  i^antabalag 


mistaken,  of  course  outsiders  need  know  nothing  of 
these  researches ;  if  I  am  right,  you  will  share  in 
Mr.  Graham's  fortune,  no  doubt." 

Linda's  mind  had  gone  swiftly  back  through  the 
shadowed  years.  "If  it  will  clear  my  mother's  mem- 
ory, I  agree  for  you  to  push  the  matter,  for  this  rea- 
son only,  I  assure  you ;  and  I  do  not  want  him  to 
think  that  I  am  giving  my  sanction  to  your  plans. 
There  shall  be  no  pretense  of  afifection.  What  do 
I  owe  him?  I  tell  you,  there  are  things  more  cruel 
than  death." 

The  genealogist  looked  at  the  girl,  whose  face  had 
whitened  under  the  stress  of  feeling.  "I  admire  your 
spirit.  Miss  Linda.  One  could  hardly  blame  you  if 
you  should  never  forgive  him,  but  you  owe  it  to  your 
own  good  name  to  clear  up  the  shadow  on  your 
mother's  past." 


80 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE    CUP   OF   PLEASURE. 

Much  of  the  autumn  was  spent  flitting  among  the 
CaroHna  mountains.  During  the  cool  days  of  Sep- 
tember the  Eagle's  Nest  was  abandoned,  and  Mrs.  De 
Jarnette  with  her  young  companion  journeyed  lei- 
surely from  point  to  point  in  the  "land  of  the  sky." 
The  last  of  October  found  them  at  home  in  Savannah. 

When  moments  of  introspection  had  come  Linda 
was  restless  and  unhappy.  Half  consciously  she  had 
been  going  through  struggles  that  were  changing  the 
very  warp  and  woof  of  her  character.  At  times  she 
looked  into  her  heart  with  the  feeling  that  a  stranger 
had  taken  up  abode  there. 

In  that  simple  farmhouse  which  had  been  her  only 
home  there  had  been  little  of  what  is  called  good 
breeding.  There  was  antiquated  English,  there  were 
crude  manners.  Looking  back  on  the  bare  life,  the 
cramped  social  surroundings,  the  meager  intellectual 
sympathy,  she  believed  that  never  again  could  she 
take  up  that  life  and  find  peace  or  joy  in  it. 

At  first  there  had  been  a  sense  of  uneasiness  as  she 
joined  in  the  dance  and  the  game  of  cards.  She 
soon  learned  to  quiet  her  conscience  by  arguing  with- 
in herself  that  the  old  life  was  one  of  narrowness — 
that  a  girl  thus  trained  might  feel  a  sense  of  wrong- 
doing from  the  mere  novelty  of  the  amusements.  She 
saw  that  men  and  women  brought  up  in  that  larger 

81 


%n   tbe   Banta!)aIa0 


outside  world  thought  of  these  things  as  matters  of 
course.  She  succeeded  in  salving  her  spirit's  wound 
by  such  fine  words  as  "provincialism,"  yet  always 
there  was  the  tendency  to  avoid  moments  of  inlook- 
ing,  of  rigid  self-examination. 

There  had  been  evenings  of  gayety  when  the  flushed 
cheek  and  sparkling  eye  spoke  of  unhealthy  excite- 
ment. Later,  when  the  quiet  of  her  own  room  brought 
poise  to  her  soul,  she  would  look  out  upon  the  awe- 
inspiring  mountains,  swathed  as  they  were  in  the 
moonlight's  heavenly  radiance,  and  a  mighty  yearn- 
ing for  divine  things  would  lift  her  spirit  into  a 
purer  atmosphere.  At  such  times  she  would  remember 
with  a  sickening  sense  of  depression  that  first  night 
away  from  home — that  long-to-be-remembered  night 
when  the  sweet  voice  of  a  noble  woman  had  sung  into 
her  soul  the  music  of  Lanier's  lines :  "I  will  build 
me  a  nest  on  the  greatness  of  God."  How  far  afield 
had  she  gone  since  then !  Was  she  building  that  nest 
wisely  and  well?  Was  this  life  best  for  her?  Back  of 
all  the  novelty  and  excitement  was  there  a  growth  in 
character  that  tokened  well  for  her  future  ?  Ah,  it  was 
all  too  complex !  Why  not  "take  the  goods  the  gods 
provide"  without  this  morbid  quibbling,  this  unhappy 
self-questioning?  Did  not  God  mean  that  his  chil- 
dren should  be  happy  ?  The  waves  dance  in  merri- 
ment; flowers  quiver  as  though  alive  with  joy — 

"Ten  thousand  saw  I  in  a  glance, 
Ten  thousand  in  one  sprightly  dance." 

the  birds  of  heaven  sing  in  pure  abandon  of  happi- 
ness. And  shall  one  of  his  very  own  be  miserable 
because  she  has  dared  to  join  in  innocent  pleasure? 
It  is  all  wrong,  this  morbidness,  this  moody  introspec- 

82 


Hn   tU  il3amai)ala$ 


tion  which  is  shutting  oft'  the  sunhght  for  one  who  has 
had  so  little  of  sunlight  in  her  life. 

The  Savannah  home  in  which  Linda  found  herself 
settled  was  in  a  residence  quarter  not  too  fashionable 
for  gentility.  The  street  was  one  of  old  homes,  where 
old  memories  gave  charm  and  distinction  to  the  sur- 
roundings. 

Within  a  few  days  after  Mrs.  De  Jarnette's  arrival 
the  services  of  tutors  were  secured  and  Linda  began 
a  course  of  lessons  calculated  to  supplement  the  teach- 
ing she  had  received  in  the  schools.  With  her  light 
duties  as  companion  to  Mrs.  De  Jarnette,  her  studies, 
and  the  social  life  naturally  falling  to  her  as  friend 
of  the  older  lady,  Linda's  time  passed  rapidly — hap- 
pily, she  told  herself  in  her  brighter  moods.  But 
always  there  was  the  spirit  of  unrest,  of  half  satisfac- 
tion that  served  as  an  undercurrent  through  the  ebb 
and  flow  of  feeling.  As  she  went  deeper  into  the 
life  of  Mrs.  De  Jarnette  and  her  set,  she  found  many 
things  that  disturbed  her  and  threw  her  mind  back 
for  a  balancing  point  to  that  quiet  time  in  the  moun- 
tain solitudes,  when,  as  she  thought,  her  heart  was 
eating  itself  out  for  want  of  action,  of  outlet.  Now, 
in  the  thick  of  activity,  with  life  surging  about  her, 
its  mysteries  stirring  her  soul,  its  high  motives  calling 
to  her,  its  temptations  beating  against  her,  she  began  to 
see  that  the  years  of  formation  had  lasted  none  too 
long. 

She  wanted  to  keep  a  clear  vision,  to  see  the  real 
things,  the  worthy  things  about  her;  but  there  was 
confusion,  often,  instead  of  clarity  as  she  looked  upon 
the  life  around  her.  The  game  of  cards  which  had 
caused  her  httle  uneasiness  in  its  beginnings  grew 
into  large  proportions  in  its  bearing  on  her  char- 
acter.   She  found  that  her  acquaintances  were  among 

83 


in  tbt  BmtaMn^ 


the  ladies  whose  round  of  social  pleasures  included 
card  parties.  The  custom  of  giving-  prizes  added  zest 
to  the  game,  but  it  was  with  a  shock  that  she  learned 
that  many  ladies  in  that  set  staked  money.  As  she 
became  more  accustomed  to  these  things  her  view  of 
them  changed— not  in  a  few  days,  but  slowly,  as  char- 
acter processes  always  act. 

Mrs.  De  Jarnette  was  a  woman  of  consideration  in 
the  best  social  circles  of  the  city,  and  many  of  the 
younger  women  who  deferred  to  her  were  on  guard 
in  her  presence.  Linda  found  that  the  quiet  games 
in  her  friend's  home  were  conducted  very  differently 
from  the  card  parties  given  by  many  others  in  the 
same  social  strata.  There  were  elegant  homes  in  which 
money  was  spent  with  reckless  extravagance — homes 
wherein  barriers  were  somehow  broken  down  and 
ladies  gave  to  themselves  a  freedom  which  in  Mrs. 
De  Jarnette's  eyes  would  have  seemed  license. 

At  first  Linda  accepted  invitations  to  these  homes 
because  the  ladies  were  acquaintances  of  Mrs.  De 
Jarnette,  and  perhaps  the  young  girl  felt  flattered 
by  the  notice  given  her.  Later  she  came  to  the  point 
at  which  this  glow  of  life,  this  swiftly  moving  pro- 
cession was  delightful  to  her.  The  first  time  wine 
was  served  at  one  of  these  card  parties  she  refused 
the  glass.  Her  nearest  neighbor,  a  well-bred,  beau- 
tifully dressed  woman,  leaned  toward  her:  "Don't 
you  care  for  wine,  my  dear?  This  is  the  finest 
Madeira." 

"Yes,  I  like  it ;  but  I  had  not  thought  it  quite  right 
to   drink  it." 

"Ah!"  and  the  lady's  brows  were  lightly  lifted. 

Linda  was  aware  that  she  had  said  an  outre  thing, 
and  a  flush  came  to  her  face. 

Among  her  friends  in  Brevard  there  had  been  a 

84 


In   tbt  iaantaf)ala0 


deep  and  sincere  recognition  of  the  fact  that  the 
great  things  of  Hfe  bear  on  the  question  of  right 
and  wrong.  Among  these  new  friends  there  seemed 
to  be  a  code  forbidding  discussion  of  anything  on  so 
high  a  plane.  To  amuse  themselves  for  the  passing 
hour,  to  drink  of  pleasure's  cup  unmindful  that  dregs 
might  be  below,  appeared  to  be  the  chief  aims  of  the 
younger  set  of  women  who  composed  the  world  in 
which  Linda  now  found  herself.  Yet  this  grosser 
life  was  so  hedged  about  with  external  beauty,  so 
softened  by  a  fine  and  easy  grace  of  manner,  a  cour- 
teous consideration  for  others  that  the  girl  was  de- 
ceived into  believing  that  such  life  is  the  one  really 
worth  while ;  and  as  the  weeks  passed  she  found  her- 
self more  and  more  ready  to  leave  her  books  and 
quiet  her  thoughts  and  join  the  passing  show. 

One  afternoon,  at  a  card  party  given  by  a  wealthy 
young  matron  of  her  acquaintance,  there  seemed  to 
be  a  spirit  of  unusual  excitement  astir  when  Linda 
went   in,    accompanied    by   another   young   lady. 

"We  were  just  saying.  Miss  Graham,  that  we  fear 
you  girls  will  be  shocked  if  Airs.  Herkener  is  in  her 
gayest  humor  this  afternoon." 

"O,  don't  prejudice  the  young  ladies!  I  think  Mrs. 
Herkener  is  such  fun,  and  she  is  certainly  a  warm- 
hearted woman." 

"I  admit  that,  but  you  know  she  doesn't  draw  the 
lines  very  closely." 

Later  a  tall,  elegantly  dressed  woman  came  in  with 
a  married  lady  whom  Linda  had  met,  though  never 
in  Mrs.  De  Jarnette's  home.  The  whole  room  was 
visibly  affected.  Every  one  who  had  no  acquaintance 
with  Mrs.  Herkener  seemed  to  have  heard  of  her. 

Soon  the  game  was  made  up,  and  Linda  found 
herself  at  the  same  table  with  the  late  arrival. 

85 


Un   tbt  jaanta!)ala0 


The  playing  was  desultory  at  first.  Mrs.  Herkener 
talked  a  great  deal  in  a  soft,  rich  voice,  and  held  the 
attention  of  those  near  her.  Her  home  was  in  an- 
other State ;  but  her  young  ladyhood  had  been  spent 
in  Savannah,  and  there  was  much  discussion  of  the 
whilom  members  of  their  set. 

"They  tell  me  Nell  Talbot  has  quit  flirting.  I  didn't 
think  it  possible.    She  must  have  married  a  Tartar." 

Then  an  oath  fell  lightly  from  her  red  lips.  Linda 
looked  in  amazement  at  the  woman,  then  at  her  lis- 
teners. The  faces  about  her  showed  varying  emotions. 
On  some  was  absolute  astonishment  or  disgust,  on 
others  open  or  half-concealed  amusement. 

"O,  I  beg  pardon.  Miss  Graham !  I  see  by  your 
looks  that  you  are  not  accustomed  to  vigorous  terms. 
There  was  a  time  in  my  'green  and  salad  days'  when 
these  things  jarred  on  me,  but  such  innocence  can't 
last." 

Linda  was  mute.  How  could  a  woman  of  educa- 
tion, wide  opportunities  for  culture  so  cheapen  the 
fineness  that  belongs  to  woman  nature? 

Mrs.  Herkener  went  on :  "Now,  my  husband  wishes 
me  to  have  a  good  time.  I  don't  believe  it's  possible 
for  him  to  be  jealous,  and  I  am  so  glad.  It  is  such 
fun  to  break  in  a  lot  of  youngsters,  doing  the  Pla- 
tonic and  all  that,  you  know.  Of  course  Dick's  aw- 
fully busy,  and  it's  tiresome  to  him  to  go  about; 
so  I  really  think  he's  grateful  to  the  dear  boys.  By 
the  way,  Flora,  you  remember  Tom  Elson,  of  Talla- 
hassee, the  kid  you  met  up  in  the  mountains  two  years 
ago?  He  has  grown  to  be  the  swellest  young  fel- 
low. Two  years  of  college  life  have  brought  him  out 
wonderfully.  Really,  it  almost  makes  me  serious  to 
hear  him  discourse  about  woman.  He  worships  the 
eternal  feminine,  and  just  now  he  fancies  I  am  the 

86 


Kn   tfje   jaantai)ala0 


one — the  onliest  one.  He  is  so  splendid  looking-,  in 
a  demigod  style,  that  I  feel  like  it's  almost  worth  while 
to  be  good  in  order  to  hold  his  worship.  Another 
glass,   please ;   I   adore   sherry." 

Linda's  face  showed  continued  wonder. 

"You  blessed  innocent !"  the  rich,  musical  voice 
flowed  on.  "You  don't  know  what  to  think  of  me? 
Don't  let  your  maiden  dreams  be  disturbed.  I  am  not 
altogether  horrid.  Life  is  an  awful  bore  at  times, 
and  one  must  do  something  or  go  daft.  I  am  not 
sly,  and  that  constitutes  the  great  difference  between 
myself  and  many  other  ladies  of  my  acquaintance. 
Sly,  did  I  say?  Let  me  correct  that,  for  I've  taken 
to  cigarettes  without  Dick's  knowing  it.  One  simply 
must  season  the  stale  days  with  something,  and  Tom 
had  just  gone  back  to  college."  The  beautiful  eyes 
turned  calmly  from  one  to  another  and  again  rested 
on  Linda's  perturbed  face.  "My  dear,  you  have 
trumped  your  partner's  trick.  Do  I  confuse  you  with 
my  talk?  Forgive  me,  and  Lll  be  good."  She  grew 
quiet  and  bent  her  attention  to  the  game,  playing 
rapidly  and   with  evident  mastery  of  the  cards. 

Linda  was  fascinated  by  the  woman's  beauty  and 
grace.  Her  white  hands  moved  deftly,  her  soft,  dark 
eyes  shone,  her  ripe  lips  closed  firmly  as  she  grew 
more   intent  on  the  play. 

For  a  while  the  game  moved  swiftly  on.  The  faces 
of  the  other  ladies  grew  more  interested.  Mrs.  Her- 
kener  played  as  if  her  whole  soul  was  staked  on  the 
result,  and  success  came  at  her  touch.  No  one  in  the 
game  had  such  mastery  of  cards. 

At  last  her  luck  turned,  and  Mrs.  Herkener's  face 
grew  tense  and  white.  She  flashed  her  brilliant  eyes 
as  if  taking  in  the  whole  sweep  of  the  game.  Evi- 
dently she  was  watching  her  opponents  with  suspicion. 

87 


Un   tfte   5i^antaf)ala0 


Linda's  partner  was  a  comparative  stranger  to  the 
girl,  and  it  was  only  by  slow  forcing  that  the  truth 
was  made  plain  to  her.  Mrs.  Douglas,  her  partner, 
was  trying  to  hold  the  game  by  surreptitious  signs. 
To  them  Linda  gave  no  heed,  but  played  as  if  she  saw 
nothing.  Finally  the  woman  put  out  her  foot  and 
touched  Linda's  lightly. 

Mrs.  Herkener  leaned  forward:  "If  this  occurs 
again,  I'll  throw  up  my  hand."  The  face  was  wide 
awake  now,  all  the  gambler's  passion  alive  in  it ;  the 
white  hand  gripped  the  cards  till  the  muscles  strained, 
the  eyes  gleamed  unnaturally. 

]\rrs.  Douglas  looked  at  her.  "If  you  care  that 
much  for  cards,  you'd  better  quit  altogether.  It's 
byplay  to  me.     I  was  only  in  fun." 

"You  were  trying  to  cheat,  and  it  is  a  shame !" 

"Ladies,  ladies !"  The  hostess  hurried  to  the  table, 
and  Linda  rose  from  her  place. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Lane,  but  won't  you  find 
another  partner  for  Mrs.  Douglas?" 

"Pray  keep  your  seat.  Miss  Graham ;  I  am  sure 
no  harm  was  intended." 

"I  am  sorry  to  seem  rude,  but  I  am  more  ashamed 
of  my  part  in  the  game.  Mrs.  Herkener,  allow  me 
to  thank  you  for  opening  my  eyes  to  the  folly  and 
danger  of  cards." 

As  she  stood  by  the  table,  her  face  aglow  with  ex- 
citement and  indignation,  Mrs.  Herkener  looked  up 
at  her :  "You  are  right,  girl.  Give  it  up.  I  would 
fall  down  and  thank  God  if  it  were  possible  for  me  to 
go  back  to  my  innocent  girlhood  and  find  some  friend 
who  would  save  my  womanhood  for  me." 


88 


CHAPTER  XI. 

MOUNTAIN    PRIDE. 

For  Linda  there  were  days  of  exaltation  after  the 
events  of  the  card  party — days  in  which  Lanier's  Hne 
was  to  her  one  of  the  most  vital  things  in  life.  She 
seemed  to  have  cut  loose  from  the  influences  that  had 
been  sweeping  her  onward.  During  this  time  she 
could  not  speak  of  these  things  to  Mrs.  De  Jarnette. 
To  put  her  thoughts  into  words  would  have  seemed 
a  desecration. 

After  a  morning  call  from  a  friend  Mrs.  De  Jar- 
nette   sent   for    Linda. 

"Sit  down,  dear,"  the  elder  lady  spoke  kindly.  "Mrs. 
Eubanks  has  been  telling  me  of  a  little  incident  that 
occurred  the  other  evening  at  Mrs.  Lane's  card  party." 
She  waited. 

"Yes?"  The  name  of  Mrs.  Eubanks  stirred  a  feel- 
ing of  resentment  in  Linda's  heart.  She  was  aware 
that  the  imposing  dowager  disapproved  of  her. 

"Of  course,  Linda,  I  like  for  you  to  be  conscientious, 
but  is  it  not  wise  to  guard  against  extremes?"  Mrs. 
De  Jarnette's  manner  was  perfect,  gentle,  self-re- 
strained, motherly. 

Linda's  face  flushed  hotly. 

"Did  Mrs.  Eubanks  tell  you  that  the  woman  with 
whom  I  was  playing  used  an  oath,  and  that  another 
one  in  the  game  tried  to  cheat?" 

"O,  my  dear,  don't  use  such  plain  terms.  She  did 
not  say  so  much.    I  inferred  that  you  disapproved  of 

89 


In  tbt  i^anta!)ala0 


the  game — for  some  reason,  she  did  not  specify — and 
that  you  were  a  Httle  too  impulsive  in  showing  your 
disapproval." 

"In  other  words,  that  I  made  a  scene?  I  have  hesi- 
tated to  speak  of  it  to  you,  not  because  of  any  fear, 
but  because  the  matter  was  one  of  such  importance  to 
me,  I  could  not  trust  myself  to  talk  calmly  of  it." 

"Won't  you  give  me  your  version  of  it,  dear?  I 
am  aware  that  our  social  life  is  not  so  quiet  and 
dignified  as  it  used  to  be.  We  older  people  seem 
out-of-date,  but  in  my  girlhood  we  tried  not  to  make 
ourselves  conspicuous.  I  stand  in  the  place  of  your 
mother,  as  well  as  your  friend,  and  I  feel  that  you 
should  trust  me  entirely." 

With  vivid  words  Linda  pictured  the  evening  to  her, 
the  beautiful  woman  with  the  charm  of  graceful  man- 
ners, and  an  air  of  distinction,  but  with  the  poison  of 
a  tongue  unscrupulous  in  its  choice  of  words,  and  the 
spirit  of  one  on  fire  with  the  passion  of  gambling. 

"Ah,  where  will  we  stop?  I  believe,  Linda,  you 
have  done  right ;  you  have  not  followed  the  traditions 
by  which  we  have  always  lived,  but  there  sometimes 
comes  an  hour  when  one  must  do  a  positive  thing 
even  if  it  is  unconventional.  It  may  prove  a  little 
awkward  for  us,  for  you  and  for  me,  but  I  shall  not 
scold  you.     Now  kiss  me  and  run  along." 

Thus  encouraged,  Linda  felt  that  she  could  easily 
stand  for  all  that  she  considered  right  and  worthy, 
but  as  the  days  passed  found  herself  again  drawn  this 
way  and  that.  One  victory  does  not  always  end  a 
war. 

The  young  ladies  of  her  acquaintance  seemed  ill 
at  ease  when  with  her.  They  hardly  knew  where  to 
place  her.  She  had  set  herself  apart  by  her  conduct 
on  the  evening  of  the  card  party. 

90 


in   tht  Bantafjalag 


Just  at  this  point  Telfair  Ledroux  returned  to  Sa- 
vannah from  an  extended  business  trip.  It  was  with 
a  perturbed  spirit  that  Linda  thought  of  his  coming 
into  her  hfe  again.  Separated  from  him  she  had 
succeeded  in  crowding  him  into  the  background  of 
thought  and  emotion,  but  near  him,  with  him,  how 
would  it  be?  She  dare  not  let  him  get  back  his  old 
ascendancy.  Her  letters  to  Harry  and  their  answers 
had  grown  to  have  a  profounder  meaning  for  her. 
She  saw  through  the  terse  lines  the  steady  formation 
of  manliness  that  was  going  on  in  the  boy's  nature. 
He  never  assumed  too  much.  His  letters  were  such 
as  any  sturdy  friend  might  write  to  a  girl  who  had 
helped  and  encouraged  him  to  a  larger  life.  He  told 
her  of  his  books,  his  teachers,  his  comrades.  Finally 
a  new  note  struck  in  and  changed  the  tenor  of  his 
letters.  One  of  the  professors  had  been  awfully  good 
to  him.  "The  fellows  seem  to  wonder.  They  say 
he  has  never  been  known  as  anything  but  a  machine 
for  turning  out  math.  work.  I  don't  understand  his 
liking  me ;  but  I  reckon  he  does.  We  walk  through 
the  woods  here  sometimes,  and  I  can't  get  out  of 
my  head  for  days  the  talk  he  has.  You  never  heard 
anything  like  it — fine,  fine,  beauty  there,  and  sweet- 
ness— but  under  it  all  and  back  of  it  all,  a  note  of 
sadness.  So  sad,  I  can't  tell  you  just  how  it  impresses 
me. 

In  a  later  letter:  "The  fellows  still  guy  me  about 
old  'Math.',  as  they  call  him,  and  I  love  him.  What 
a  man  he  is !  What  a  brain  and  heart.  He  seems  to 
me  to  have  sounded  every  depth  of  thought.  He  is 
not  simply  a  math,  machine.  All  knowledge  appeals  to 
him.  He  has  the  soul  of  a  poet.  Idealism,  all  the 
finer  isms  that  are  supposed  to  be  foreign  to  the  mathe- 
matical temperament,  find  sympathy  in  his  nature.     I 

91 


In   tbe   3l5anta!)alag 


can't  imagine  what  gives  him  that  undertone  of  sad- 


ness." 


Linda  saw  that  Harry  was  making  rapid  strides 
intellectually;  perhaps  his  older  friend  had  much  to 
do  with  this.  The  girl  herself  had  found  there  is 
no  awakener  of  the  intellect  like  contact  with  a  rare 
personality. 

Soon  after  ]\Ir.  Ledroux's  arrival  he  came  to  the 
De  Jarnette  home  in  his  usual  informal  way,  as  a 
friend  of  the  family.  He  was  ushered  into  the  room 
where  the  ladies  were  sitting.  After  the  customary 
greeting  and  interchange  of  light  talk  he  turned  to 
the  young  girl.  "I'm  glad,  ]\liss  Graham,  to  find  you 
in  our  city,  and  I  hope  to  have  the  pleasure  of  renew- 
ing the  acquaintance  so  pleasantly  begun  at  Eagle's 
Nest.  I  do  not  forget  the  evening  we  had  our  first 
game  of  whist.     I  trust  we  will  have  many  more." 

A  silence  fell.    At  last  Mrs.  De  Jarnette  remarked : 

"  'And  thereby  hangs  a  tale'.  Linda  has  quit  cards 
because  of  conscientious  scruples." 

"Ah!  then  we  will  resort  to  other  pleasures,"  and 
he  deftly  turned  the  talk. 

Somehow  Linda  felt  a  sense  of  narrowness  in  the 
presence  of  this  cosmopolite.  To  have  any  struggle 
of  conscience,  any  effort  of  prayer  over  so  trivial  a 
thing  as  a  game  of  cards  must  look  to  Mr.  Ledroux 
like  spiritual  childishness.  She  spurred  her  intel- 
lect to  keep  pace  with  him  and  to  show  that  not 
always  did  she  dwell  in  flats  and  shallows.  Before 
the  evening  was  over  this  man  of  intellect,  oi  rare 
conversational  power,  had  resumed  his  place  in  her 
spirit's  stronghold  and  again  the  old  fight  with_  her 
higher  self  was  renewed,  the  old  restlessness  revived, 
the  old  struggle  for  self-mastery  was  on. 

The  letters  from  Harry  lost  nothing  in  power.    They 

92 


Sn   tbt  Banta!)a!a0 


registered  a  constant  growth  of  heart  and  mind  in 
the  writer,  but  they  became  a  source  of  trouble  to 
Linda,  stirring  again  the  feeling  that  she  was  not 
acting   sincerely    with   the   young  man. 

While  in  this  restless  state  one  of  Harry's  letters 
added  to  her  distress.  "I  have  found  out  the  secret 
of  'Math.'s'  sadness.  It  all  came  out  from  the  fact 
that  J  told  him  of  you,  of  my  great  hope  (mind,  I 
said  there  was  nothing  sure),  and  in  his  sympathy 
for  me  he  was  led  to  tell  me — much.  I  feel  like  I 
have  gone  through  some  fair  temple,  and  have  seen 
such  wonderful  sights,  heard  such  heavenly  sounds. 
Great  God !  The  soul  of  a  man  like  that  is  the  final 
answer  to  skepticism.  He  was  in  love  in  his  young 
manhood,  and  tlie  woman  failed  him  in  a  way  that 
would  make  some  men  hate  the  whole  world.  Dear 
old  Math,  came  out  of  it  wath  a  mighty  grip  on  God, 
and  the  tenderest,  most  pitying  love  for  the  woman. 
As  for  the  other  man,  he  hated  him  and  planned  to 
kill  him  in  the  open,  but  Fate  was  ahead  of  him.  The 
scoundrel  sent  for  Math,  while  he  was  dying.  The 
girl  didn't  live  long.  It  was  enough  to  melt  a  stone 
to  see  the  sweetness,  the  spiritual  beauty  that  shines 
like  a  star  through  such  a  cloud. 

"I  felt  sorry  that  he  had  had  no  such  woman  as 
you  to  reverence." 

To  a  fine  soul  there  is  no  accusing  so  keen  as  over- 
praise. Linda  gave  herself  no  rest  until  she  had  an- 
swered Harry's  letter.  "You  are  placing  me  too 
high.  If  you  lived  close  to  me,  if  you  could  know 
my  inward  struggle,  you'd  find  your  mistake,  perhaps 
to  your  own  undoing  and  my  unhappiness.  Take  me 
down  from  the  pedestal.  Think  of  me  as  a  plain, 
everyday  girl  and  not  a  heroine — a  girl  who  wishes 
to  wear  the   'white  flower  of  a  blameless  life'   but 

7  93 


Sn   tije   Il5antaf)ala0 


finds  it  hard,  very  hard,  to  do  the  right  thing  under 
all  circumstances. 

"I  have  not  been  quite  honest  with  you ;  maybe 
not  with  myself.  You  know  of  my  uncertainty  in 
regard  to  my  feeling  for  you,  Harry,  but  you  may  not 
know  that  I  have  simply  been  a  coward  of  late — 
a  coward  who  was  sure  what  she  ought  to  do  but  failed 
in  courage  because  of  fear  that  a  true  heart  would 
be  sorely  wounded.  You  have  grown  into  a  man- 
hood that  will  help  you  bear  the  disappointment,  and 
you  will  see  that  it  is  unjust  to  you  to  hold  you  to  an 
uncertain  hope.  You  w^ill  yet  see  the  day  when  you 
can  think  of  me  as  a  comrade  struggling  upward  with 
you,  a  friend  who  loves  you  and  rejoices  in  your 
growth.  I  am  not  going  to  say  anything  about  mat- 
ters being  at  an  end  between  us.  I  expect  to  hear 
from  you  as  usual.  You  will  not  think  that  I  am 
indifferent  and  I  shall  feel  proud  to  be  allowed  to 
watch  the  mountain  boy  as  he  takes  his  place,  shoulder 
to  shoulder,  with  men  who  are  making  ready  to  do 
things  in  this  world. 

"You  asked  me  once  if  there  was  anyone  else.  I  will 
be  frank  with  you,  even  if  it  be  at  the  expense  of 
what  you  might  think  is  perfect  modesty.  There  is 
a  man  who  is  showing  me  more  of  my  own  nature 
than  I  have  ever  known.  I  cannot  say  that  he  loves 
me  or  that  I  love  him  though  he  has  sought  me — 
singled  me  out  by  attention  when  I  would  have  pre- 
ferred it  otherwise ;  but  he  disturbs  and  distresses 
me  by  his  influence  over  me.  Can  that  be  love?  At 
any  rate  I  can  be  honest  with  you — I  must  be  so 
and  simplify  matters  to  that  extent.  If  I  do  a  wrong 
to  myself  I  need  not  extend  the  wrongdoing  to  so 
true  a   friend." 

Harry's  answer  was  prompt  and  manly.     He  gave 

94 


In  tht  Ji^antaftalasi 


her  back  the  shadow  of  a  promise  and  begged  that 
she  feel  no  remorse  for  having  allowed  him  to  hope 
at  all.  It^had  been  his  own  insistence  and  her  kind- 
ness. If  there  was  a  man  who  could  give  her  all 
the  things  she  deserved  and  might  never  have  as  the 
wife  of  one  who  had  to  work  his  way  up,  he  hoped 
she  would   feel   free  to  care  for  that  other. 

Not  long  afterward  came  a  letter  from  Fannie, 
who  was  in  college  in  a  North  Carolina  town.  "I 
am  indignant.  For  once  in  your  life,  Linda  Graham, 
you've  shown  a  lack  of  good,  sound  judgment.  Harry 
Turner  has  the  making  of  a  man  in  him.  Did  he  tell 
you  he  had  seen  me  lately?  A  crowd  of  the  'Varsity 
boys  were  in  town  the  other  day  (it  must  have  been 
before  you  wrote  him  that  letter).  Their  football 
team  met  a  South  Carolina  one  here  and  had  to  spend 
the  night.  In  the  evening  some  of  the  boys  came  up 
to  see  girls  in  the  college.  x\mong  them  was  Harry, 
who  asked  for  me.  I  like  him.  He  isn't  handsome, 
but  he  is  improving  so  much,  and  his  face  is  just  the 
sort  I  like.  A  big  mouth  and  a  strong,  determined 
look  all  over  him — shoulders  and  head  and  everything. 
Of  course  we  talked  of  you  .  .  .  And  just  to 
think!  You  must  have  set  him  adrift  before  the 
week  was  over.  I'll  bet  that  Mephistophelian  Dr. 
Fell  is  at  the  bottom  of  it;  and  I,  for  one,  don't  ap- 
prove. You  are  a  bit  older  than  I  am,  but  you  haven't 
seen  so  many  people  as  your  young  friend.  Don't 
trust  that  handsome  man  with  the  French  name  and 
high  and  mighty  air.  He  completely  squelches  me. 
I  wilt  in  his  presence  as  promptly  as  an  anemone 
in  the  air  of  a  hot-house.  (I  like  that  and  propose 
to  use  it  in  the  'Message'!)  By  the  way,  I  must  tell 
you  of  the  literary  honors  being  showered  upon  me. 
I  am  editor-in-chief  of  our  college  paper,  'The  Mes- 

95 


In  t!)e  i^amaftalasi 


sage,'  am  appointed  to  write  a  play  for  the  expression 
class  to  use  at  our  mid-winter  entertainment,  be- 
sides which  I  am  running  a  little  private  business 
with  my  gifted  pen,  to  wit:  One  essay  for  Marion 
Reid,  my  room-mate,  who  bargains,  in  payment  there- 
of, to  make  my  bed  and  do  sundry  other  household 
duties  during  the  space  of  one  month. 

"Item  2.  A  short  essay,  weekly,  for  Maude  Adding- 
ton,  who  agrees  to  do  my  darning  as  payment. 

"Item  3.  Work  as  associate-editor  of  'Message' 
for  Isabel  Willis,  who  agrees  to  embroider  sundry 
center-pieces  therefor,  to  be  presented  to  my  mother 
at  Christmas. 

"The  expression  teacher  criticises  my  play,  what 
I've  written  thus  far,  by  saying  it's  too  scrappy,  that 
I  quote  too  much  and  use  trite  phrases  till  it's  patch- 
worky.  I  talk  just  that  way  and  I  'low  to  keep  at  it. 
It's  a  crime — literarily — to  use  any  two  words  ever 
before  put  together  in  the  same  way,  so  I  shall  just 
take  the  bit  in  my  mouth  and  use  all  the  idioms  and 
localisms  and  slang  phrases  and  quotations  that  I 
please. 

"But  to  hark  back  to  your  own  affairs.  Tell  me 
—is  it  Dr.  Fell?" 

^  ^  9}: 


"Yes,  your  Dr.  Fell  has  had  something  to  do  with 
it,  but,  if  it  will  please  you  to  hear  it,  I  have  refused 
to  marry  that  same  Dr.  Fell. 

"As  to  Harry:  I  see  the  good  that  is  in  him.  I 
can  stand  by  and  watch  his  development  with  the 
pride  that  one  comrade  might  have  for  another.  It 
pleases  me  to  see  the  mountain  boy  growing  into 
the  strong,  self-reliant  man  whose  brain  is  quicken- 
ing by  contact  with  new  forces.  I  feel  a  glow  as  I 
realize  how  surely  the  power  dormant  in  my  people 

96 


In   tf)e   iaantaf)ala0 


flowers  into  greatness.  You  speak  of  his  manners. 
He  is  wonderfully  quick  to  catch  on  to  the  little  things 
that  we  girls  notice.  I  saw  the  difference  last  sum- 
mer. Part  of  it  is  due  to  the  fact  that  his  father  is  a 
gentleman  by  nature,  if  he  does  use  'liolp'  instead  of 
helped,  and  if  he  Jias  been  brought  up  in  a  community 
where  it  is  not  considered  'bad  form'  for  women  to 
drop  corn.  ]\Irs.  Turner  says  she  has  never  heard  her 
husband  use  what  she  called  a  'vulgar  word.'  When 
I  have  had  to  listen  to  insinuations  that  came  from 
fashionably  dressed  women  who  veiled  their  coarse- 
ness, I  have  thought  of  my  own  aunt,  of  Harry's 
father  and  mother,  of  others  whose  minds  seem  to 
me  to  square  with  their  lives  in  being  clean  and  up- 
right. 

"O,  I  know  these  things,  but  I  cannot  help  this 
reaching  out  of  my  heart  for  the  man  who  meets  your 
disapproval.  He  masters  me.  When  with  him  my 
whole  nature  is  astir  to  please  him.  Away  from  him 
I  doubt  it  all.  I  fear  that  his  is  not  the  best,  the 
highest  influence. 

"I  have  refused  to  marry  him  because  of  my  pride, 

perhaps.    I  would  not  want  my  husband  to  be  ashamed 

of  me  or  of  my  family.     He  is  so  far  above  me  in 

intellect   and   in   social  position — what  do  I  have  to 

balance    things?      Nothing    whatever,    and    I    cannot 

bear  to  feel  myself  inferior  at  every  point." 

*         *         * 

"My  Dear  Tragedy-Queen :  You  need  me,  beloved. 
I  am  back  home  for  Christmas.  (Will  go  to  Marian's 
later  for  a  few  days  before  school  opens.)  You  ought 
to  be  here  to-night  with  a  big,  warm  kimona  on,  your 
hair  all  down  around  your  shoulders,  a  plate  of 
mother's  Christmas  cake  nearby,  and  your  friend  giv- 
ing you  the  distilled  v/isdom  of  the  ages  as  it  per- 

97 


In  tfte  i^antal)ala$ 


colates  through  her  brain.  You  are  something  of  a 
problem  with  all  your  loveableness,  and  you  do  not 
quite  know  yourself. 

"If  you  love  that  man,  go  on  and  marry  him.  I 
will  be  pushing  no  more  ghosts  into  your  banquet. 
Don't  talk  nonsense  about  inferiority.  Of  course  he 
has  brains,  money,  position,  but  you  have  what  is 
infinitely  superior — greatness  of  soul.  I  am  sure  he 
isn't  worthy  of  you,  but  so  much  of  a  paradox  am  I, 
the  thing  I've  feared  I  now  desire  because  you  wish 
it.  Let  me  hear  from  you  soon  and  tell  me  you  are 
happy." 


98 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE   TIE  OF  BLOOD. 

As  the  days  passed  it  was  clear  to  Mrs.  De  Jar- 
nette  that  Ledroux  was  being  drawn  again  to  Linda. 
So  strong  are  the  conventions  this  woman  of  the 
world  wondered  if  the  man  really  intended  to  marry 
the  girl,  or  was  he  simply  whiling  the  time  away 
because  of  her  beauty  and  charm  ?  There  were  hours 
when  the  woman-heart  rose  in  rebellion  against  the 
sacrifice  of  youth  and  innocence.  At  such  times  Mrs. 
De  Jarnette  was  tempted  to  warn  Linda,  to  open 
Ledroux's  unlovely  past  to  her,  and  to  break  up  the 
growing  intimacy.  But  always  the  law  of  her  world 
closed  her  lips.  At  last  she  decided  to  let  matters 
drift.  There  seemed  to  be  no  harm  in  allowing  Le- 
droux the  freedom  of  a  house  which  had  always  been 
open  to  him  as  the  son  of  an  intimate  friend.  If  he 
chose  to  marry  the  girl  there  was  no  one  to  gainsay 
him.  Save  for  one  sister  he  stood  alone  in  the  world 
so  far  as  close  family  ties  were  concerned.  That 
sister's  residence  in  a  distant  city  precluded  any  seri- 
ous interference  on  her  part.  If  the  past  with  its 
aristocratic  tendencies,  the  memories  of  high-bred  men 
and  women,  should  not  forbid  his  allying  himself  to  a 
girl  of  the  people,  who  would  have  any  right  to  dis- 
approve? To  be  sure  the  girl  was  all  that  an  exact- 
ing man  might  ask,  but  back  of  this  was  the  unde- 
niable fact  that  she  belonged  to  obscurity  and  poverty. 

99 


In   tbt  Jl5anta6ala0 


Possibly  there  was  not  one  of  her  family  of  whom 
she  would  not  be  ashamed  in  the  old  Ledroux  home, 
where  everything  spoke  of  wealth  and  refinement. 

In  Mrs.  De  Jarnette's  eyes  Linda's  manner  was 
perfect.  She  accepted  Ledroux's  friendly  attention 
with  quiet  dignity.  There  was  no  flutter,  no  em- 
barrassed self-consciousness  about  her.  Much  of  their 
association  was  in  Mrs.  De  Jarnette's  parlor  where 
books  were  read  and  discussed,  the  two  younger  peo- 
ple taking  the  more  active  part.  Ledroux's  wide 
knowledge  of  the  world,  his  travel  and  experience 
gave  him  the  advantage  of  leadership,  yet  the  woman 
listening  often  noticed  that  the  girl's  mind  added  color 
and  distinction  to  the  talk.  Linda  seemed  intellec- 
tually fearless  and  never  hesitated  to  differ  from  the 
man's  view  even  when  that  view  was  backed  by  the 
authority  of  the  ages.  This  very  independence  seemed 
to  be  a  pleasure  to  Ledroux  and  led  him  into  wide 
fields  of  argument,  when  he  would  close  the  book 
and  draw  Linda's  eager  mind  along,  deferring  to  her, 
or,  with  swift  logic,  driving  her  to  woman's  conclu- 
sive word,  "It  is,  because  it  is." 

One  afternoon  just  before  the  Christmas  holidays 
Linda  was  out  when  a  caller  inquired  for  her.  The 
servant  who  announced  the  gentleman  came  back  to 
Mrs.  De  Jarnette  with  the  message  that  he  was  espe- 
cially anxious  to  see  the  young  lady.  Would  she  be 
back  soon? 

Thinking  it  might  be  an  old  friend  or  some  relative 
of  the  girl  Mrs.  De  Jarnette  had  him  invited  to  the 
parlor  where  she  was  sitting.  The  tall,  old  gentleman 
with  the  clear-cut  features,  the  high-bred  air,  the 
courtly  bow,  could  not  belong  to  Linda's  mountain 
home. 

The  two   stood,   for  an  instant,   looking  into  each 

100 


3n   tfje   iaanta!)ala0 


other's  eyes,  mentally  gauging  the  man  and  woman  ly- 
ing below  the  protecting  sheath  that  custom  forms. 

''My  name  is  James  Graham,  madam.  I  did  not 
send  in  my  card  because  I  thought  it  possible  the 
very  name  might  prejudice  the  family  against  me." 

"James  Graham?     Of  Augusta?" 

"The  same,  madam." 

"Be  seated,  sir.  You  wish  to  see  Linda,  my  com- 
panion?" 

"I  must  see  her.    There  are  imperative  reasons " 

He  seemed  about  to  go  on,  then  paused. 

"I  am  expecting  her  every  moment.  She  is  out 
for  a  short  while  only." 

The  man  looked  into  the  patrician  face  before  him 
and  recognized  the  fact  that  this  lady  belonged  to 
his  own  world.  She  might  be  able  to  understand  his 
motives,  the  influences  that  had  molded  him,  had  im- 
pelled his  past  and  now  constrained  him  at  every  step. 

He  motioned  her  to  a  seat  and,  drawing  a  chair 
near  her,  began: 

"If  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  tell  you  a  little  story, 
hoping,  believing,  that  you  will  prove  my  ally  when 
you  hear  me  out." 

"I  suppose  it  is  about  Linda.  I  am  all  interest, 
for  I  love  the  girl,  and  feel  that  she's  under  my  care 
in  no  ordinary  sense." 

"Certainly,  and  I  believe  your  friendship  for  her 
will  help  to  adjust  matters."  Then  briefly  he  sketched 
the  story  of  his  son's  illness  in  i^tlanta,  his  own  dis- 
tress and  disbelief  when  confronted  by  the  young 
woman  with  her  absurd  claim.  "Perhaps  I  was 
harsh.  It  was  altogether  unbelievable  to  me,  that  my 
boy,  for  whom  I  had  such  great  hopes  and  plans, 
should  so  disappoint  me.  When  she  offered  no  proof 
except  her  own  word,  and  had  to  acknowledge  that 

101 


Hn   tfte  Banta!)ala0 


she  could  not  find  the  minister  who  married  them, 
that  letters  to  him  had  come  back  to  her  unopened, 
I  believed  that  she  was  false,  wholly  bad,  and  was 
simply  trying  to  extort  money  from  me.  However, 
when  I  asked  her  how  much  money  she  expected,  the 
heart-breaking  look  on  the  girl's  face  did  stir  a  doubt 
in  my  mind.  If  my  boy  had  lived  longer  I  would 
have  tried  harder  to  find  her,  but  inquiries  at  the 
boarding-house,  where  she  was  a  waitress,  developed 
the  fact  that  she  had  gone — no  one  knew  where — pre- 
sumably back  to  the  mountains.  Then  my  son's  death 
somewhat  crowded  the  matter  out  of  my  mind. 

"Later,  in  the  quiet  of  our  home,  weeks,  then 
months,  passed  without  any  further  word  of  her,  until 
I  became  convinced  that  she  was  truly  an  adventuress, 
but  one  of  a  weak  sort  and  had  been  frightened  away 
by  my  attitude.  You  are  aware  of  the  manner  in 
which  the  matter  was  brought  to  my  mind  again. 
Miss  McGregor  has  been  to  Augusta  lately.  I  have 
spared  no  pains  to  verify  her  belief  that  your  friend 
is  my  son's  daughter.  After  many  disappointments 
we  found  the  South  Carolina  minister  who  performed 
the  marriage  ceremony  for  the  young  people.  He 
was  traveling  in  Europe  at  the  time  the  wife  was 
trying  to  obtain  proof  of  her  marriage.  I  am  sorry 
— with  a  great  sorrow — and  I  stand  ready  to  make 
every  possible  restitution." 

Mrs.  De  Jarnette  had  listened  sympathetically : 
"Linda  is  exceedingly  proud." 

"Yes,  and  resents  my  treatment  of  her  mother. 
But  surely  she  will  listen  to  me.     She  will  forgive." 

"I  hope  so.  I  wish  it.  Understand,  it  would  cost 
me  a  good  deal  to  give  her  up.  Her  strength,  her 
dependableness  have  become  very  necessary  to  me, 
and  I  love  the  girl  for  her  fine  qualities.     Besides  it 

102 


In   ti)e   j{3antaf)ala0 


is  not  improbable  that  she  will  marry  one  of  the 
partis  of  the  city.  I  feel  sure  the  gentleman  is  very 
much  in  love  with  her.  and  now  that  her  ancestry  is 
proven  to  be  desirable  I  see  nothing  in  the  way." 

"Would  it  be  any  consideration  if  I  propose  to  give 
her  a  dower?" 

Mrs.  De  Jarnette  smiled.  "It  might  please  the  man, 
but  I  can  imagine  Linda's  resenting  such  an  offer. 
You  will  have  to  see  her  before  you  decide  what 
method  to  pursue  with  her." 

Their  talk  drifted  away  from  the  great  topic  into 
other  channels.  A  common  interest  in  the  old  South 
with  its  fine  civilization,  a  recognition  of  the  vital  dif- 
ference between  yesterday  and  to-day,  gave  them  mat- 
ter for  discussion.  In  the  midst  of  their  talk  the 
door  opened  and  a  sweet,  cheery  voice  broke  upon 
them. 

"But  didn't  I  tarry?  There  were  so  many  pretty 
things  to  look  at.  The  city  is  full  of  Christmas  al- 
ready. O,  I  beg  pardon.  I  didn't  know  you  had 
company." 

"Linda,  come  here,  child.  This  is  Mr.  James  Gra- 
ham, of  Augusta." 

The  girl  caught  her  breath  quickly.  Mrs.  De  Jar- 
nette took  her  hand  and  drew  her  gently  forward, 

Mr.  Graham  was  on  his  feet.  He  moved  a  step 
nearer  and  held  out  his  hand,  while  his  eyes  hungrily 
searched  the  beautiful  face  lifted  to  him. 

The  bright  look  faded  from  Linda's  eyes.  The 
lines  of  the  whole  face  fell  into  statuesque  coldness. 
Her  hand  touched  lightly  the  one  held  out  to  her. 

"Mr.  Graham?"  she  spoke  with  cool  self-possession, 
"an  acquaintance  of  yours,  ]\Irs.  De  Jarnette?" 

The  latter  lady  turned  helplessly  and  looked  at  the 
gentleman. 

103 


Sn   tfje   I13antaf)ala0 


"What  beauty!  What  an  air,"  mentally  exclaimed 
the  old  man. 

"Linda,"  Mrs.  De  Jarnette  spoke  a  little  sharply; 
"you  must  know  who  this  is,  and  I  shall  leave  you  to 
listen  to  him.  Remember  I  expect  you  to  be  reason- 
able." 

"Will  you  sit  down  and  hear  me?" 

The  girl  seated  herself. 

He  began  his  story  in  a  quiet  manner,  but  as  he 
went  on  his  emotion  showed  in  gesture,  in  look,  in 
pathetic  tremor  of  voice.  He  told  his  tale  much  as 
Mrs.  De  Jarnette  had  heard,  perhaps  emphasizing  less 
his  high  ambition  for  his  son.  He  did  not  spare  him- 
self in  telling  of  his  meeting  with  Linda's  mother. 
When  he  came  to  his  oflfer  of  money  the  girl  lifted  her 
head  quickly : 

"O,  my  mother!" 

"Yes,  yes,  it  was  a  cruel  thing  to  do.  I  am  sorry — 
God  only  knows  how  sorry."  After  finishing  the  tale 
there  was  silence  between  them  for  a  space. 

Again  the  old  man  broke  the  stillness :  "I  am  alone 
in  the  world,  except  for  an  invalid  son  who  has  lived 
in  his  chair  for  years.     My  wife  long  since  died,  my 

daughter  died  childless I  had  thought — hoped — 

can  you  find  it  in  your  heart  to  come  and  live  with  an 
old  man  whose  heart  is  nigh  broken,  whose  life  is 
lonely  with  the  loneliness  of  age  and  bereavement?" 

Linda's  face  softened.  Its  cold  look  changed  to 
one  of  sympathy,  but  she  felt  no  impulse  of  love,  no 
tenderness  that  might  prompt  her  to  sacrifice  herself 
for  him.  Her  mind  flew  outward,  fancying  long  days 
in  his  home  with  always  the  shadow  of  her  wronged 
mother  between  them.  He  watched  her  keenly.  The 
silence  was  again  broken  by  the  man : 

"I  see.     It  is  too  much  to  expect  of  you.    At  least 

104 


Sn   tfje  j^anta})ala0 


you  will  allow  me  to  make  life  easy  for  you  with  the 
money  that  would  have  been  your  father's?" 

"If  I  cannot  give  you  my  life,  myself,  it  seems 
wrong  to  use  your  money." 

"I  do  not  see  it  that  way.  It  is  really  your 
money,  and  if  you  have  no  need  for  it  yourself  you 
might  use  a  part  for  the  benefit  of  your  aunt's  fam- 
ily.    I  believe  she  has  several  children." 

"Yes." 

"Then  you  do  not  refuse  to  allow  me  to  send  your 
aunt  money?  Remember  she  took  care  of  my  son's 
wife  and  child  when  there  was  no  one  else  to  do  it." 

"I  have  no  right  to  refuse  if  she  is  willing  to  ac- 
cept." 

He  bowled  and  moved  toward  the  door.  As  he 
passed  Linda  noted  the  pathetic  droop  of  the  tall  fig- 
ure, the  whiteness  of  the  bent  head.  Of  a  sudden 
her  pride  fell  away  as  a  useless  thing.  The  woman 
heart  within  her  rose  tumultuously.  A  quick  step 
and  she  was  by  his  side.  The  fountains  were  broken 
up.  As  he  looked  down  in  her  face  he  saw  the  tears, 
the  pity,  the  divine  love  shining  there,  and  he  gath- 
ered her  to  him,  murmuring  sweet,  endearing  words 
the  while. 


105 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

ALL   FOR   LOVE. 

After  the  reconciliation  with  her  grandfather  Linda 
could  do  no  less  than  give  to  him  a  part  of  the  Christ- 
mas time,  reserving  to  herself  the  right  to  return  to 
Mrs.  De  Jarnette  when  the  New  Year  opened. 

Her  heart  was  deeply  touched  by  the  welcome  given 
her  in  the  stately  home  of  her  father.  At  first  the 
loneliness  of  the  house,  the  stillness  pervading  the 
spacious  rooms,  struck  a  chill  to  her  sensitive  nature, 
but  as  the  old  man  led  her  to  his  invalid  son  and  she 
looked  down  on  the  drawn  figure,  the  white  pain- 
lined  face,  the  sense  of  isolation  forsook  her.  The 
younger  man's  pathetic  eyes  looked  searchingly  into 
hers.  All  the  woman  in  her  nature  responded,  and 
she  knelt  by  the  chair  smoothing  the  graying  hair 
and  murmuring  gentle  words  of  sympathy. 

"O,  my  dear,  my  dear ;  you  don't  know  how  sweet 
it  is  to  feel  the  touch  of  a  woman's  hand.  Since  my 
mother  died  there  has  been  no  woman  to  show  love 
for  me."  The  thin  hands  clasped  hers  and  all  the 
man's  heart-hunger  showed  in  his  eager  look  and 
movement. 

There  were  tears  in  the  father's  eyes  as  he  watched 
the  scene. 

A  little  later  as  the  young  girl  sat  by  the  big  chair 
talking  brightly  to  the  sick  man  he  seemed  to  hang 
on  every  word  and  follow,  with  happy  interest,  every 

106 


Un   tfje   Jl^antafieilas 


gesture,  every  change  of  expression  in  the  beautiful 
face. 

A  while  then  her  grandfather  bade  her  come  with 
him  to  her  own   room. 

As  they  climbed  the  broad  stairway  there  came 
over  Linda  that  strange  feeling  which  sometimes  over- 
powers us  with  a  sense  of  life's  unreality.  She  seemed, 
in  the  depths  of  her  consciousness,  to  be  fully  aware 
that  somewhere,  sometime,  she  had  lived  through  this 
very  scene,  had  passed  along  a  magnificent  hall  and 
up  a  stairway  into  a  beautifully  appointed  room  with 
an  old  man  by  her  side, — an  old  man  whose  pride  had 
been  broken,  whose  domineering  spirit  had  been 
quieted  by  life's  sorrows  and  who  now  offered  her 
in  humblest  fashion,  the  best  of  himself,  a  love  purified 
as  by  fire. 

A  warm  fire  brightened  the  hearth,  soft  lights 
showed  the  perfect  taste  of  the  room's  fittings. 

"The  maid  has  done  her  part,  but  I  preferred  to 
help.  This  is  your  room.  These  are  your  belongings 
if  you  will  accept  them.  Your  grandmother  used 
the  room  when  she  was  a  bride  and  to  the  day  of 
her  death. 

"She  believed  I  was  too  harsh  in  my  dealings  with 

your  mother,   so  you  need  not  hesitate  to if  you 

could  only  feel  at  home  here." 

Linda  laid  her  hand  gently  on  the  tremulous  lips. 
"I  thought  the  past  was  to  be  forgotten  entirely.  You 
shall  not  make  yourself  unhappy  to-night,  this  Christ- 
mas Eve,  and  my  first  night  in  your  home." 

"Can't  you  think  of  it  as  your  home,  Linda?  We 
need  you  so  much ;  oh,  so  much." 

"I  have  intended  nothing  else  since  I  looked  on 
Uncle  Cam's  face.  If  you  want  me  you  shall  have 
me," 

107 


M  tbt  jeanta6ala0 


"God  bless  you,  dear."  He  took  her  hands  in  his 
and,  holding  them  tenderly,  talked  to  her  of  his  sor- 
rows, his  keen  disappointments  as  he  had  slowly 
watched  the  death  of  all  his  ambitions.  How  he  had 
rebelled  at  the  early  death  of  his  boy.  And  when 
the  younger  began  to  show  signs  of  physical  decay  a 
storm  of  doubt  submerged  all  his  being.  He  had 
seemed  to  be  in  the  clutches  of  a  loveless,  most  cruel, 
Fate.  The  spirit  of  the  Covenanters  rose  fierce  within 
him,  not  the  spirit  that  chose  death  rather  than  yield 
an  inch  of  one's  hold  on  God,  but  the  stubbornness 
that  could  bear  without  flinching.  Far  off  seemed 
the  God  who  took  no  loving  care  of  suffering  hu- 
manity. 

"For  years  I  have  seemed  to  live  absolutely  with- 
out God.  I  thought  the  very  name  had  lost  its  mean- 
ing for  me.  No  minister  has  dared  to  talk  to  me  of 
Him.  Even  Cameron  has  feared  to  mention  such 
things,  and  I  know  he  has  tried  to  hide  his  suffer- 
ing because  the  sight  of  it  hardened  me  toward  that 
Being  who  allows  such  misery. 

"But  of  late  somehow  a  change  has  forced  its 
way  through  me,  my  heart,  my  conscience.  I  speak  it 
reverently — I  believe  God  has  been  drawing  me  to 
Him  before  that  great  change  toward  which  we 
all  are  tending.  And  oh,  my  child,  if  you  had  failed 
me  it  would  have  been  a  sad  thing  for  my  slowly 
growing  faith  in  Him. 

"Come  to  me.     Help  me  to  find  Him." 

Again,  as  often  before,  there  came  to  Linda  the 
vision  of  a  noble  woman  kneeling  by  the  side  of  a 
girl  and  pleading  for  God's  love  and  protecting  care 
to  be  around  that  girl.  Again  the  rare  music  of  the 
voice  sang  into  the  young  soul  the  line:  "I  will  build 
me  a  nest  on  the  greatness  of  God."     Now  and  here 

108 


In  tf)e  ii5anta!)ala0 


in  her  father's  home,  might  it  not  come  to  pass  that 
the  inspiration  of  those  words  and  of  that  great  per- 
sonahty  should  prove  a  Godsend  to  another  life? 
Might  not  the  torch  then  lighted  be  carried  on  to  an- 
other and  from  him  still  again  to  others  who  are 
speeding  the  final   race? 

The  greatness  of  the  thought  humbled  her.  Before 
its  significance  all  consciousness  of  money's  power 
faded  out  of  her  mind.  The  luxury  around  her  be- 
came a  trivial  thing,  of  kin  to  her  life's  early  poverty, 
when  looked  at  in  the  light  of  this  mighty  struggle 
after  God — a  struggle  which  is  and  will  be  the  su- 
preme thing  in  existence. 

Linda's  presence  in  the  home  brought  a  change  to 
the  whole  household.  Even  the  servants  went  about 
their  duties  with  a  pleased  look.  For  the  two  lonely 
men  the  days  took  on  a  wonderful  brightness.  To 
have  some  one  to  love,  to  plan  for,  to  wait  a  meal 
for  her  coming,  and  have  her  presiding  over  the 
table,  to  hear  her  fresh  young  voice  about  the  house, 
to  watch  her  when  some  gift  was  offered  her, — these 
things  seemed  miraculous  to  the  men  so  long  unused 
to  woman's  presence.  They  took  delight  in  showing 
her  whatever  was  of  interest  to  her  in  the  home, — 
the  family  portraits,  a  few  jewels  coming  down  from 
a  former  generation,  old  china  that  had  belonged  to 
her  grandmother,  and — what  interested  her  as  greatly 
— the  library  which  had  accumulated  during  the  years. 
Linda  could  hardly  be  blamed  for  feeling  a  throb  of 
satisfied  pride  to  know  that  all  this  which  stood  for 
good  blood  and  breeding,  belonged  to  her  and  allied 
her  to  an  honorable  past. 

One  evening,  toward  the  latter  part  of  Christmas 
week,  the  three  were  sitting  in  the  library  where  much 
of  their  time  was  spent,  when  a  gentleman  asking 
8  109 


In  tbt  laamaftalas 


for  Mr,  Graham  was  announced.  In  a  few  moments 
the  latter  returned  with  an  inscrutable  look  on  his 
face :  "My  visitor  wishes  to  see  you,  Linda." 

The  girl's  face  flushed  painfully.    "Is  it ?" 

Her  grandfather  smiled.    "Yes,  it  is  Mr.  Ledroux." 

Linda  rose  and  stood  by  her  uncle's  chair. 

"I  can  tell  you  what  he  wishes,  dear ;  but  I  gave  him 
to  understand  it  would  be  almost  impossible  for  us  to 
give  you  up — now,  just  as  we  have  found  you  and 
are  learning  how  much  happiness  you  can  bring  into 
our   lonely   home." 

The  younger  man  looked  up  wistfully.  "It  hasn't 
come  to  that — already,  has  it,  Linda?" 

"I  think  not,  Uncle." 

She  stooped  and  kissed  his  forehead.  He  held 
her  hand  in  a  loving  clasp.  "Don't  let  us  keep  you 
out  of  happiness,  dear.  If  it  is  love,  we  have  no  right 
to  interfere." 

When  she  had  gone  the  two  looked  at  each  other. 

The  father  spoke:  "It  would  be  hard  to  do  without 

her — hard  for  both  of  us — but  I'm  afraid  it  will  end 

in   that." 

*         *         * 

She  went  toward  him,  slowly,  as  if  reluctant  to  re- 
new the   struggle.     He  was  standing  expectant. 

"Linda,  Linda,  I  cannot  do  without  you.  Come  to 
me."  He  held  her  hands,  drawing  her  to  him,  com- 
pelling her  by  physical  mastery,  by  the  glow  in  his 
dark  eyes,  the  passionate  thrill  of  voice,  the  half- 
restrained  excitement  of  his  whole  being.  "I  love 
you,  Linda ;  I  love  you." 

She  looked  up.  Something  in  that  handsome  face 
drove  the  blood  backward  and  Linda  drew  away  from 
him,  her  face  white,  her  whole  air  forcing  him  to  pause. 
Again  he  came  close.    "You  do  love  me.     You  know 

110 


In  tbt  Ji3antai)ala0 


you  are  not  indifferent.  I  defy  you  to  say  it."  He 
spoke  softly,  tenderly, 

"Are  you  afraid  of  me,  sweetheart?  O,  I  would 
be  so  good  to  you  you'd  learn  to  love  me  in  spite  of 
yourself.  I  am  not  worthy  of  you.  What  man  is 
worthy  of  a  good  woman?  But  my  love  shall  make 
up  to  you  for  everything." 

He  waited  a  moment.  "If  you  did  not  care  for  me 
at  all  you  would  have  sent  me  away  without  hope 
before ;  but  I  knew — I  knew,  and  now  that  your  pride 
is  satisfied  there  is  no  reason,  is  there?" 

Again  he  took  her  hands,  and  gently  drawing  her 
to  him,  looked  into  her  eyes,  watching  the  yielding 
there  and  letting  the  conqueror's  light  flame  into  his 
own  eyes. 

"You  do  love  me,  Linda." 

"Yes,  yes."  His  arms  were  about  her  and,  for  the 
moment,  all  doubts  and  fears  were  forgotten  as  she 

yielded  to  the  sweetness  of  his  mastery. 

*         *         * 

A  few  days  later  she  wrote  to  Fannie :  "It  has 
come.  I  have  promised  to  marry  Mr.  Ledroux,  and 
may  God  help  me  if  I  am  doing  wrong.  My  grand- 
father and  uncle  are  very  good  about  it.  I  am  sure 
they  wish  me  perfect  happiness,  but  I  am  equally  sure 
they  hate  to  think  of  my  marrying  soon,  and  it  shall 
not  be  for  a  while,  anyway,  though  Mr.  Ledroux  in- 
sists on  an  early  date.  I  suppose  that's  the  regulation 
thing  for  lovers  to  do.  .  .  .  I  am  happy  and  yet 
I  am  miserable.  To  have  wounded  so  true  a  heart  as 
Harry's,  to  have  come  under  the  condemnation  of 
so  true  a  friend  as  yourself,  makes  me  altogether  un- 
happy ;  but  when  I  think  of  having  won  the  love  of  this 
man  for  whom  my  heart — oh !  don't  tell  me  that  I  have 
no  right  to  this  happiness." 

Ill 


In   tbt   J^antaf)ala0 


"My  Darlingest  Dear:— You  are  equal  to  a  three- 
volume  edition  of  the  old  romances — Alonzo  and  Me- 
lissa, for  instance.     Positively,  I  begin  to  feel  a  thrill 
dov;n  my  spinal  column  when  I  start  to  open  one  of 
your  letters.     I  had  just  begun  to  touch  terra  firma 
after  the  excitement  brought  on  by  your  grandfather's 
renaissance,  and  now,  here  am  I,  floating  in  mid-air 
again,  with  visions  before  me,  around  me,  above  me, 
— visions   of  dark-browed   heroes   and   golden-haired 
maidens  on  whom  the  veil  and  orange  wreath  have 
descended  as  if  from  the  highest  empyrean.     Really, 
my  precious  friend,  I  wish  for  you  all  true  and  lovely 
things.     Go  on  and  enjoy  your  happiness  and  don't 
fancy   that   I,    of   all    persons,    grudge   you   this   joy. 
If  a  girl  doesn't  have  the  right  to  the  supreme  thing 
when  she  is  engaged,  pray  when  is  she  to  have  it? 
As  for  Harry,  of  course  he  will  trouble  because  he 
is  made  of  stuff  that  lasts ;  but  I  believe  he  will  come 
out  all  right.     Bless  you !    He  doesn't  blame  you  one 
bit.     He's  taking  his  medicine  like  a  man.     He  and 
I  sat  an  evening  out  just  before  I  left  Marian's.     I 
felt  like  laying  my  hand  on  his  head  and  blessing  him 
for  a  saint  on  earth.    If  a  man  ever  loves  me  with  the 
sort  of  love  Harry  Turner  gives  you  I  devoutly  pray 
that  the  church  visible  will  canonize  him.     Such  beau- 
tiful devotion  ought  to  be  rewarded  on  this  old  earth 
as   an  example  to  would-be  lovers  while  time  lasts. 
A  knight  he  is— of  the  old  sort,  if  he  does  have  a  plain 
English,   everyday  name,   and  is  a  trifle  awkward  in 
getting  out  of  a  room.     'I  owe  her  everything.     She 
has  given  me  my  manhood  and  I  will  never  forget.' 
Whereupon   your   poor   little    friend   felt   like    saying 
some  lofty  thing  suited  to  so  extraordinary  an  occa- 
sion ;  but,  as  my  custom  is,  I  succeeded  in  getting  off 
a  little   flighty   speech   with   a   tiny  bit  of   slang   in 

112 


In   tbe  laantaftalas! 


it.  He  laughed  and  that  broke  up  the  seriousness 
of  our  talk.  Oh  !  dear  ;  oh  !  dear  ;  the  heroic  sentiments 
will  never  cling  around  me.  People  think  of  me  as 
something  to  laugh  with,  to  pass  idle  hours  with — but 
enough  of  this !  To  go  back  to  yourself,  Linda.  You 
shall  not  doubt  my  love.  I  will  stand  by  you,  dear 
heart,  trusting  and  believing  that  all  will  be  well  with 
you,  and  that  God  will  bless  this  marriage,  will  give 
you  the  happiness  you  so  richly  deserve." 


113 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

UNREST. 

"We  are  to  be  married  in  the  autumn.  My  grand- 
father insists  that  I  take  a  month's  rest  in  the  moun- 
tains. Uncle  Cam  has  not  been  so  well  this  spring- 
time and  we  have  stayed  in  with  him  pretty  closely. 
This,  with  what  study  I  have  undertaken,  gives  my 
grandfather  uneasiness.  He  claims  that  I  am  on  the 
brink  of  a  breakdown  and  offers  to  get  a  nurse  for 
Uncle  during  July  and  let  me  have  a  whiff  of  the 
mountain  air  once  more.  Can't  you  come  to  Aunt 
Sarah's  with  me  for  that  month?  I  do  not  care 
to  go  where  there  is  a  crowd.  It  seems  to  me  the 
blessed  quiet  of  our  woods  and  fields  would  restore 
my  mental  poise,  would  give  me  back  my  girlhood. 
You  need  not  hesitate  to  accept  our  invitation, — 
Aunt  Sarah's  and  my  own.  Some  of  the  money  that 
would  have  been  my  father's  is  being  turned  into  chan- 
nels where  it  will  do  good,  we  hope.  My  aunt's 
house  is  being  enlarged.  Her  oldest  daughter  is  to 
go  to  school  in  the  fall. 

"You  think  I  ought  to  be  happy,  that  everything 
seems  to  lend  itself  to  enrich  my  life.  You  may  be 
right,  but  somehow  these  things  have  failed  to  give 
me  the  happiness  that  one  has  a  right  to  expect.  Surely 
I  am  not  physically  at  par.  There  are  days  in  which 
life  to  me  appears  so  unreal,  so  elusive,  just  as  if 

114 


In   fbt  Jl3antaf)ala0 


you   reach  out  to  touch  a  beloved  friend  and  wake 
to  feel  the  emptiness  of  a  dream. 

"I  love  Mr.  Ledroux,  but  it  is  just  as  it  was  before 
our  engagement.  When  away  from  him  a  sense  of 
uneasiness  oppresses  me.  I  remember  how  differently 
we  look  at  life.  It  comes  out  at  every  point.  Some 
stern  old  Covenanter,  according  to  grandfather,  has 
sent  down  to  me  a  conscience  that  takes  the  brightness 
out  of  life  by  making  me  over-sensitive  about  little 
things.  I  see  that  Mr.  Ledroux  thinks  of  my  beliefs 
as  he  might  of  a  child's  whims — a  child  who  is  too 
young  and  immature  to  judge  between  great  and 
small.     I  need  your  help,  you  dear  girl. 

"Mrs.  De  Jarnette  has  another  companion,  but  she 
is  so  good  as  to  say  that  no  one  can  take  my  place. 
I  cannot  quite  understand  her  attitude  toward  Mr. 
Ledroux  and  myself.  I  know  she  is  fond  of  him. 
He  has  always  been  intimate  in  her  home,  but  some- 
how she  has  taken  our  engagement  in  a  way  that 
distresses  me.  If  I  were  not  sure  of  her  love  I  would 
think  she  considers  it  a  mistake,  socially.  Yet  with 
her  love  for  me  and  her  recognition  of  my  grand- 
father's position  I  do  not  believe  she  is  reluctant  for 
that  reason.  She  certainly  is  not  overjoyed.  You  are 
not  a  bit  glad.  I  cannot  expect  Harry  to  be.  See? 
Here  am  I  with  all  my  best  friends  out  of  sympathy 
with  me  at  a  time  when  I  am  so  hungry  for  their  per- 
fect fellowship.  But  enough !  I  must  be  growing 
self-centered.  Tell  me  of  yourself,  your  new  friends, 
your   studies." 

"Dearly  Beloved : — I  am  so  glad  of  that  precious 
month-to-be.  Yes,  thank  you,  I  expect  to  come  and 
be  happy  with  you  once  more.  You  write  as  if  you 
had  tasted  the  sweets  of  life  only  to  find  them  holding 

115 


Sn  tbt  Ii3antai)ala0 


a  bitter  tang  at  the  last.  Chirk  up!  Do  you  re- 
member that  classic  bit  from  the  all-around  big  Wil- 
liam?   The  bit  I  love  to  quote? 

"  'Jog^o"'  jog"  on-  the  footpath  way,  and  merrily  hent 
style-a.'  If  a  girl  can't  be  happy  with  a  golden  spoon 
in  her  mouth,  her  hand  possessed  of  the  Midas-touch, 
her  face  with  all  the  charm  of  the  enchanted  Beauty, 
pray  what  will  make  her  happy? 

"I  want  the  time  to  hurry  and  bring  the  two  of  us 
together.  You  should  get  some  good,  old-fashioned 
doctor  to  prescribe  for  you.  Not  the  modern  sort  that 
jerks  out  his  scant  words,  peeks  clean  through  you, 
then  whips  out  a  knife  and  prescribes  a  trained  nurse. 
I  suggest  that  your  grandfather  go  out  into  the  coun- 
try ,^  if  necessary,  and  hunt  up  the  kind  that's  so  nearly 
extinct,  one  who  will  set  his  saddle-bags  down  in  a 
leisurely  fashion,  look  over  the  top  of  his  spectacles 
and  call  you  'Daughter'  while  he  is  mixing  a  mighty 
dose  of  rhubarb,  aloes  and  jalap,  to  be  preceded  by 
eight  grains  of  bichloride  of  mercury  stirred  in  mo- 
lasses. Oh,  you'd  forget  to  keep  your  finger-tip  on 
your  conscience  if  you  had  my  kind  of  doctor.  Don't 
you   believe  it? 

"Heigh  ho !  Did  you  know  that  I  have  seen  Harry 
again?  Marian  makes  fond  pretension  if  she  isn't 
sincere.  Really  I  believe  she  loves  me,  and  in  my  heart 
she  comes  next — a  far  next — to  you.  (Remember  that 
you  dwell  in  my  heart  of  hearts.)  Since  my  last 
letter  to  you  I  have  been  down  to  spend  Easter  with 
Marian.  You  know  the  University  is  so  much  nearer 
our  school  than  my  own  home  is.  The  Pater  and 
Mater  are  awfully  good  to  give  me  such  a  lovely  time, 
but  I  am  trying  to  study  and  hope  to  repay  them  by 
making  a  woman  of  myself.  But  to  go  back  to  my 
visit.     Harry  came  to  see  me  and  I  feel  quite  proud 

116 


In   tf)e   Bantabalag 


of   him.      He    continues   to   grow.      There's    nothing 

little  or  weak  about  him.     Some  of  the  other  young 

men  called  and  they  were  full  of  praise  for  him. 

"Of  course  we  talked  of  you  again.     Harry  takes 

your    engagement  like  a  man.     He  has  no  blame  for 

you.     Indeed  you  must  not  think  so  for  a  moment. 

He  is  ready  to  believe  the  best  things  of  Mr.  Ledroux. 

He,  I,  all  of  us,  wish  you  the  greatest  happiness.     If 

your  sweetheart  fails  in  goodness  I  do  not  think  your 

husband  will  do  so.     He  will  'grow  in  moral  height' 

to  keep  step  with  you." 

*         *         * 

As  the  train  comes  up  from  Georgia  it  brings  the 
traveler  into  a  country  that  gradually  grows  in  beauty. 
Before  the  North  Carolina  line  is  reached  the  ridges 
begin  to  limn  themselves  against  the  distant  sky.  Later 
Tallulah  Falls  booms  in  your  ear,  then  the  hills  sweep 
upward  in  loftier  lines  and  soon  you  find  yourself 
among  the  mountains,  the  air  bracing  every  nerve 
and  fibre  of  you,  the  beauty  about  you  stirring  your 
soul. 

It  was  with  a  heart  profoundly  moved  that  Linda 
came  in  sight  of  her  native  mountains  again.  Within 
the  year  the  railway  from  upper  Georgia  had  been 
completed  to  the  charming  little  town  of  Franklin. 
This  gave  her  a  more  direct  route  to  her  aunt's  home. 

When  she  alighted  from  the  train  she  found  her 
cousin  with  his  conveyance  ready  to  take  her  out  the 
remaining  miles  of  her  journey. 

"Say.  Lindy,  we  are  too  po'  an'  common  for  you 
now,  I  reckon?"  Bob  remarked  as  he  slapped  the 
lines  and  started  his  horse  in  the  homeward  direc- 
tion. Linda  felt  a  sudden  pang  of  guilt.  She  had 
noticed  the  shabbiness  of  the  outfit,  an  old  buggy, 
a  horse  not  too  young  and  spirited  for  safety,  and  a 

117 


In  tbt  s\^mtaMm 


set  of  pieced-out  harness.  The  young  fellow's  dress, 
too,  had  come  in  for  a  moment's  half-conscious  criti- 
cism. His  store  clothes  imperfectly  fitted,  his  air  of 
partial  bravado  as  if  he  meant  to  declare  himself  as 
good  as  anybody, — these  things  struck  unpleasantly 
on  her  quickened  sense  of  propriety.  The  men  among 
whom  she  had  moved  these  later  months  had  been  al- 
ways at  ease ;  never  conscious  of  their  apparel ;  never, 
apparently,  thinking  of  their  standing  with  their  fel- 
lows. Her  grandfather  was  one  who  would  quietly 
stand  with  kings  and  be  unabashed,  yet  never  bold. 
Mr.  Ledroux  Avith,  perhaps,  a  touch  of  haughtiness, 
was  always  outwardly  perfect  in  manner.  The  girl 
felt  ashamed  that  these  thoughts  should  flash  through 
her  brain.     Could  she  never  be  straightforward? 

"Don't  say  those  things.  Bob.  I  shall  never  be 
able  to  repay  your  mother — all  of  you — for  the  kind- 
ness you  have  always  shown  me,  and  I  would  be  basely 
ungrateful  if  I  allowed  the  accident  of  money  to  make 
a  difference  with  me.  Really,  do  you  believe  that 
money  makes  anybody  better  than  you  are?" 

The  young  fellow  squared  his  shoulders,  set  his  face 
in  firmer  lines  and  answered  with  an  air  of  positive- 
ness : 

"Nary  bit." 

Linda  noticed  the  lapse  into  sixteenth  century  Eng- 
lish, and  thought  of  her  lover  with  his  polished  speech, 
his  conversational  charm,  his  air  of  high  breeding.  Her 
heart  sank  within  her.  Would  she  feel  ashamed,  be- 
fore Mr.  Ledroux.  of  the  homely  ways  of  her  people? 
Hey  people !  Pride  rose  in  rebellion.  Were  not  her 
people  really  the  ones  with  whom  she  had  lived  of 
late — men  of  her  father's  blood,  knit  to  her  by  closest 
ties,  by  heredity,  by  sympathy,  by  fineness  of  soul? 

118 


In   tbt   Bantaj)ala0 


Need  she  be  forever  reproaching  herself  because  she 
could  not  overcome  the  shrinking  nerve  when  one  of 
her  mother's  race  showed  the  crudeness  of  an  unlet- 
tered boor. 

She  looked  at  the  lad's  face  and  again  an  over- 
whelming sense  of  littleness  swept  over  her  as  she  re- 
membered that  here,  as  so  often  before,  her  judg- 
ment dealt  only  with  the  surface  and  did  not  plumb 
the  depths.  With  an  effort  she  shook  herself  loose 
from  such  thought  and  began  talking  brightly  and 
kindly  to  the  boy. 

After  many  questions  in  regard  to  Aunt  Sarah  and 
the  rest  of  the  family  she  came  around  to  the  subject 
of  the  new  house  which  she  supposed  was  nearing 
completion. 

"Miss  Wells  looked  after  it  a  whole  lot.  It  seems 
like  she  knew  exactly  what  the  men  ought  to  do, 
but  I've  been  afeard  it  might  be  too  plain  to  suit 
you,  long  as  you're  used  to  such  fine  doin's,  but  Miss 
Wells  said  you  didn't  want  no  banjo-work  anywhere 
about  the  house.  It  jus'  suits  us  to  a  T,  Ma'  'n'  Pa 
both  say  it  looks  so  home-like  an'  ever'  day — not  too 
good  and  fine  to  use.  They've  got  big  fireplaces  jus' 
like  you  said,  an'  big  rooms  an'  wide  porches.  Miss 
Wells  says  it'll  suit  you  too,  an'  we  all  talk  a  heap 
about  you  bein'  so  good  to  us.  The  girls  say  you  al- 
ways wus  better  to  Ma  than  they  wus." 

"Oh,  no,  I  was  thoughtful  because  I  was  older. 
That  was  all,"  then  Linda  turned  the  conversation  in 
other  directions. 

As  they  drove  through  the  lovely  country,  along 
the  limpid  creeks,  now  skirting  the  wooded  hillsides, 
now  passing  through  the  fragrant  forest,  the  girl  gave 
herself  up  to  the  beauty,  the  infinite  peace  of  it  all. 

119 


Un   tJ)e   Il3antai)ala0 


The  sight  of  the  Bald  brought  the  tears  to  her  eyes. 
Like  some  great  calm  eternal  Presence  the  soothing 
power  of  it  sank  into  her  spirit  and  quieted  the  tumult 
there. 


120 


CHAPTER  XV. 

HOME   AGAIN. 

Two  weeks  had  passed  since  Linda's  home-coming. 
During  the  time  Miss  Wells  had  been  much  with 
her.  The  girl  turned  to  the  older  woman  for  that 
quiet,  unspoken  sympathy  which  is  the  finest  fruitage 
of  friendship.  Miss  Wells  saw  that  Linda  was  pass- 
ing through  a  crucial  stage  in  her  development.  To 
her  knowledge  of  the  world's  ways  the  missionary 
joined  a  deeply  sympathetic  insight.  She  recognized 
the  struggle  going  on  in  the  girl's  nature  as  she  strove 
to  adjust  herself  to  the  changed  conditions  of  her  life. 

Within  the  two  weeks  the  last  touches  had  been 
given  the  new  house.  Some  new  furnishings,  simple 
but  good,  had  been  brought  from  Franklin  and  Miss 
Wells  had  moved  in  as  a  regular  boarder,  a  state  of 
things    delightful   to   the   whole    family. 

"She  is  a  good  un,"  declared  the  youngest  boy 
to  Linda.  "Co'se  she  preaches  a  little  in  the  prayer 
meetings  an'  sech  as  that,  but  she's  got  a  way  that 
makes  a  fellow  like  her  anyhow.  Pa  didn't  take  to 
her  for  a  long  time.  Said  he  didn't  believe  in  a  woman 
tryin'  to  be  a  man,  but  he's  plum  took  up  with  her 
now." 

Linda  smiled  in  repeating  this  to  Miss  Wells  later. 
"I  am  sure  you  appreciate  the  force  of  his  expres- 
sion, but  how  is  one  to  put  it  into  good  English  for 
him?"  and  the  girl  sighed. 

121 


In   tht  J^antabalasi 


The  two  had  gone  down  to  the  spring  to  carry 
milk  and  butter,  for  Linda  insisted  on  taking  a  share 
in  the  household  work.  Tempted  by  the  cool  shade, 
the  soft  lapping  of  the  water,  the  breath  of  the  wood- 
land, they  had  seated  themselves  near  the  spring  to 
rest. 

Miss  Wells  laid  her  hand  gently  on  Linda's.  "Don't 
distress  yourself  over  these  little  things,  dear.  Jack 
has  the  making  of  a  man  in  him  and  you  will  yet 
be  proud  of  him." 

The  girl  looked  mutely  in  her  friend's  face. 

"I  know,  I  know.  You  have  not  opened  your 
heart  to  me,  Linda,  but  I  see  the  brave  fight  you  are 
making.  You  are  young  and  all  these  things  are 
terribly  real  to  you.  Youth  does  not  have  the  perspec- 
tive that  later  years  bring  one.  The  sorrows  of  life 
help  to  change  our  views,  and  when  you  are  as  old 
as  I  am  and  have  buried  as  many  hopes,  a  lapse  in 
grammar  will  not  seem  so  vital  to  you." 

"I  am  ashamed  of  this  foolish  sensitiveness." 

"Yes,  but  it  will  all  pass  away.  Besides,  your 
aunt's  family  improve  steadily  in  many  ways.  I  have 
been  struck  with  the  adaptability  of  your  mountain 
people.  They  have  strength  of  character  that  gives 
them  individuality,  and  yet,  when  they  wdsh,  they  can 
catch  on  to  the  little  niceties  of  life  in  a  wonderfully 
short  time.  I  say  'they'  in  speaking  to  you  because  you 
have  always  been  exceptional.  But  you  see  how  your 
cousins — the  two  girls — are  developing?" 

"Yes,  oh,  yes,  and  there  is  so  much  that  is  true 
and  good  in  all  of  them,  I  am  ashamed  that  I  should 
let  other  things  crowd  out  my  appreciation  of  that 
fact." 

"It  will  be  all  right.  You  are  taking  life  a  little 
tragically  just  now.     Going  through  your  'storm  and 

122 


3Jn   tlje   Ii5anta!)a!a0 


stress'  period,  perhaps.  I  saw  Harry  yesterday." 
There  was  a  pause.    Linda  made  no  answer. 

"We    spoke  of   you.     He   tells    me    that Of 

course  I  knew,  long  ago,  that  matters  were  at  an  end 
with  you  and  Harry.  He  wrote  me  that  before  the 
holidays.     And  now " ;  another  pause. 

"He  tells  you  of  my  engagement?" 

"Yes ;  he  supposed  I  knew  of  it,  and  was  afraid  he 
had  done  wrong  in  mentioning  it  to  me." 

"I  have  wanted  to  talk  to  you,  to  open  all  my  heart, 
but  it  has  been  hard  to  begin.  Aunt  Sarah  knows. 
The  girls  do  not." 

"Don't  tell  me  if  you  had  rather  not.  You  know 
I  am  always  interested  in  whatever  concerns  you,  but 
I  do  not  wish  to  force  your  confidence.  There  are 
some  things   too  tender  to   be  put  into   words." 

"I  think  the  doubts  make  it  hard  for  me  to  talk 
to  you.  With  you  my  better  self  is  uppermost.  In 
your  presence  when  I  think  of  Mr.  Ledroux  it  seems 
no  great  matter  that  he  is  a  cultured  man,  aristocratic 
to  the  very  heart,  that  he  has  money  and  high  social 
position.  The  greatest  question,  as  I  think  of  him  in 
the  light  of  your  eyes,  is  whether  or  not  he  is  a 
good  man," 

"You  could  pay  me  no  higher  compliment,  Linda. 
Would  you  like  to  tell  me  all  about  him?" 

Beginning  with  their  first  meeting  in  Eagle's  Nest, 
a  year  before,  Linda  told  of  her  acquaintance  with  her 
lover,  how  the  intellectual  charm  of  the  man  had  first 
drawn  her,  how  she  had  been  flattered  by  his  attention, 
and  later  had  withdrawn  herself  from  him  because 
of  her  wounded  pride.  She  talked  of  her  own  in- 
ward struggle,  the  fight  with  that  part  of  her  nature 
which  yielded  to  the  compelling  power  of  his  brain, 
his  vivid  personality ;  how  part  of  her  seemed  to  rise 

123 


M   tht   J^antabalas 


in  rebellion  against  his  dominance  while  the  other  half 
clamored  for  the  sweetness  of  his  presence.  "And 
when  I  had  gone  to  my  grandfather's  he  followed  me, 
claiming  my  love,  refusing  to  hear  any  objection, 
forcing  from  me  the  truth,  that  I  could  not  be  indiffer- 
ent to  him.  Before  he  left  me  I  surrendered.  I  gave 
myself  up  to  happiness  and  for  a  while  did  not  stop 
to  think  of  duty,  of  anything  but  the  fact  that  a  won- 
derful joy  had  come  into  my  life.  But  I  am  not  made 
for  happiness.  No  sooner  had  he  gone  than  all  my 
questioning  began  again.  And  now  that  I  am  at 
home  with  those  who  have  done  so  much  for  me  and 
for  whom  I  ought  to  have  all  gratitude  and  loyal 
love,  it  shames  me  to  feel  that  I  might  be  ashamed  of 
them  before  him.  Don't  you  see?  Is  it  weak  of 
me  to  be  confused?  If  it  were  necessary  for  me  to 
choose  between  him  and  them  I  would  let  him  go, 
and  yet  my  pride  rebels  when  I  think  of  his  possible 
attitude  toward  them." 

"I  think  you  distress  yourself  unnecessarily,  Linda. 
If  ]\Ir.  Ledroux  is  the  man  he  should  be,  you  will 
have  no  need  to  be  ashamed  of  your  family  before 
him.  He  will  recognize  their  true  worth  and  honor 
you  for  your  devotion  to  them." 

"Perhaps  it  would  have  been  better  for  all  of  us 
if  I  had  cared  for  Harry  as  he  deserved." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  The  heart  is  not  to  be  driven, 
and  you  did  right  in  being  frank  with  Harry.  It 
would  have  been  unjust  to  the  boy  to  give  him  a  half- 
love." 

"And  still  I  recognize  the  fact  that  he  is  better 
than  Mr,  Ledroux — a  better  man." 

"You  feel  that  way,  Linda?  But  I  think  few  young 
people  fall  in  love  with  goodness." 

124 


In   tfte  n^antafjalasf 


"It's  not  a  question  of  being  religious  at  all.  It's 
so  many  things — the  way  he  judges  men  and  women. 
Harry's  faith  in  others  gives  one  a  stronger  desire 
to  do  the  right  thing.  It  doesn't  seem  to  occur  to 
him  that  people  are  going  to  do  wrong." 

"That's  youth.  If  he  should  have  a  few  shocks 
given  him  he  might  be  different  when  he  reaches  Mr. 
Ledroux's  age." 

"At  any  rate  it  has  comforted  me  to  talk  to  you, 
and  you're  good  to  bear  with  me  like  you  do.  If  I 
stay  with  you  and  Fannie  a  month  I'll  get  to  be  a 
natural,  happy-hearted  girl,  maybe." 

The  next  day  Bob  and  Linda  met  Fannie  at  Nanta- 
hala  depot,  the  station  from  which  Linda  had  taken 
flight  into  the  outer  world  two  years  before.  Bob 
was  driving  a  wagon  in  which  to  bring  Fannie's  trunk 
while  Linda  drove  a  strongly  built  buggy,  a  present 
of  her  own  to  Aunt  Sarah  since  her  arrival. 

To  the  girl's  surprise  she  had  found  hesitancy 
among  the  members  of  her  aunt's  family  when  the 
question  of  money  was  brought  up. 

"Your  uncle  says  the  house  has  paid  for  all  we've 
done  for  you,  Lindy;  an'  I  think  so,  too,  because 
you've  been  such  a  help  to  me  'most  all  yo'  life.  An' 
he  says  'twon't  be  good  for  the  children  to  think  we 
can  always  be  gittin'  money  from  you,  or  presents. 
So  I  thought  I'd  speak  to  you  about  it  so's  you'll  be 
keerful  an'  not  give  too  many  things  to  the  girls. 
But  we  think  it's  pow'ful  nice  for  you  to  want  to  give 
us  all  so  much.  Your  uncle  says  them  Yankees  that 
keep  sendin'  boxes  an'  barrels  down  to  the  Dell  settle- 
ment means  well,  but  they  are  makin'  paupers  out  of 
the  whole  neighborhood.  The  folks  are  plum  no 
'count  now.    Nary  girl  among  'em  will  hire  out  to  do 

9  125 


Sn   tfte   jaantal)alas 


a  day's  work,  an'  even  Miss  Bowles  wear  clo'es 
made  out  of  goods  they  send,  an'  you  know  the 
Bowleses  are  good  livers." 

Bearing  this  in  mind  Linda  had  gone  to  her  uncle 
and  had  a  talk  with  him.  As  a  result  of  their  con- 
versation he  went  to  Franklin  and  selected  a  buggy 
suited  to  the  mountain  roads.  "She's  a  fine  girl  es 
ever  I  seen,  Sarah.  It  seemed  lak  it  would  'most 
break  her  heart  when  I  sorter  shut  down  on  this  here 
doin'  so  much  for  us.  To  be  sure,  we  did  take  keer 
of  her  when  she  was  a  little  fixin',  but  she  paid  for 
that  long  ago,  besides  the  house.  An'  pretty !  Shucks, 
there's  nary  girl  in  the  settlement  can  hold  a  candle 
to  her.  An'  so  fur  as  I've  seen  the  summer  bo'ders 
don't  look  no  nicer  than  she  does." 

*         *         * 

"It's  glorious  to  be  with  you  once  more,  Linda, 
and  I  mean  to  make  the  most  of  these  weeks. 

"If  I'm  to  lose  you  soon  let  me  have  all  of  you  for 
this  one  while.  I  expect  to  be  selfish,  exacting,  ab- 
sorbing— all  the  disagreeable  adjectives  you  can  think 
of. 

"It  is  like  a  page  from  a  fairy  story  book,  sure 
enough.  To  think  that  you  should  find  your  father's 
people  after  these  years,  and  that  they  should  turn 
out  to  be  so  fine  toward  you.  That  grandfather  is  a 
genuine  trump,  and  I  give  three  cheers  for  him  right 
here   upon   the  top   of   this   mountain. 

"Ah,  well !  it's  a  pretty  good  old  world,  after  all, 
and  I  propose  to  get  a  lot  of  fun  out  of  it.  The  Mater 
did  herself  proud  when  she  went  to  buy  my  summer 
outfit.  I  have  conceived  a  violent  passion  for  em- 
broidered waists.  You  ought  to  see  what  beautiful 
ones  I  have.  She  did  most  of  the  work  herself,  and 
they  are  heavenly. 

126 


In  tht  Bantaijalag 


"I  see  you  are  shocked  at  the  way  I  run  on.  Of 
course  I  ought  to  forswear  slang,  and  a  waist  can't 
be  quite  heavenly,  but  one  needn't  always  be  splitting 
hairs.  A  queenly  waist,  how  does  that  strike  you? 
If  the  Bible  can  speak  of  a  'lordly  dish'  why  can't  I 
discourse  about  a  queenly  waist  ?  O-o-oh !  how  di- 
vine !"  They  had  reached  the  crest  of  a  ridge.  Before 
them  lay  a  valley  through  which  flowed  a  stream, 
while  the  flanking  hillsides  were  backed  by  far-stretch- 
ing lines  of  mountains,  peak  after  peak,  the  nearer 
ones  blue  as  azure  skies,  the  further  ones  soft  in 
tender  amethystine  haze. 

"I  don't  wonder  that  you  are  so  intense,  my  be- 
loved. If  I  had  lived  alone  with  all  this  beauty  I'd 
be  quieter,  myself,  but  you  see  I've  always  been  sur- 
rounded by  people  and  things  till  I  didn't  have  time 
for  high  thoughts." 

Linda  smiled  and  kept  silent  while  Fannie  ran  on 
giving  vent  to  her  spirits, 

"Rouse  up,  my  dear.  Does  this  enchanted  stream 
have  a  name?  Or  is  it  all  some  mirage  of  my  over- 
heated imagination?" 

"This?  Why  I  believe  it's  the  upper  waters  of 
Cartoogechaye.     An   Indian   name,    you   see." 

"Certainly.  How  disappointed  I  would  have  been 
if  you  had  told  me  it  was  Pick-Shin  or  some  such 
plebeian    name." 

"We  are  not  very  far  from  the  old  Selden  home. 
It  is  considered  one  of  the  prettiest  old  places  in 
the  county." 

"Do  we  pass  the  house?" 

"In  sight  of  the  grove,  though  it  is  across  the  creek 
and  high  up  on  the  hill,"  and  Linda  pointed  to  a 
mountain  ridge  in  front  of  them  and  on  the  right  of 
the  valley. 

127 


In  t!)e  iaantaf)ala0 


"The  Selden  family  is  a  large  one.  They  have 
married  and  intermarried  until  they  are  related  to 
so  many  of  the  county's  best  people.  Every  year 
they  have  a  family  reunion  with  some  member  of 
the  'clan.'  I  have  been  told  their  meetings  are  in- 
teresting even  to  outsiders." 

"Perhaps  they  are  the  family  meetings  Elise  Wil- 
liams used  to  talk  of.  You  never  knew  Elise.  She 
was  in  school  the  year  before  you  came.  A  nice 
girl  and  a  good  student.  She  must  be  related  to  the 
Seldens.  I  don't  remember  the  name,  but  her  mother's 
people  lived  over  this  way,  west  of  Asheville." 

"She  may  be  in  the  old  Selden  home  now.  A  Mr. 
Williams,  from  Transylvania,  has  recently  bought  the 
farm  and  moved  to  it.  He  has  a  young  lady  daughter, 
I  hear.     Her  mother  was  a  Miss  Selden." 

"It  must  be  the  same  girl.  I  hope  we  will  see 
her.  Really  she  was  a  fine  girl,  two  or  three  years 
older  than  myself,  but  we  were  very  good  friends." 

"I  have  never  known  the  family.  We  live  sev- 
eral miles  from  any  of  them  except  these  newcomers. 
The  old  home  has  been  rented  for  several  years." 

"I  believe  it  will  be  quite  the  thing  for  me  to  let 
Elise  know  that  I  am  in  the  neighborhood.  How 
far  is  the  place  from  your  aunt's?" 

"Six  miles.  The  way  is  rough,  of  course,  but  we 
don't  think  so  much  of  the  roads  in  the  mountains 
if  they  are  passable  in  summer  time.  My  uncle  speaks 
often  of  the  different  men  in  the  Selden  connection. 
They  form  a  large  part  of  the  leaders  in  county  affairs, 
in  business  and  politics.  And  while  they  have  had 
better  advantages  than  many  of  the  mountain  people 
they  are  absolutely  loyal  to  their  native  section,  I 
believe." 

The  two  were  driving  slowly  now,  waiting  a  little, 

128 


In  tje  laantafjalag 


at  intervals,  to  see  Bob's  wagon  in  the  far  distance 
back  of  them. 

At  an  abrupt  curve  in  the  road  they  met  a  surrey 
with  two  ladies  on  the  back  seat  and  a  young  man 
driving. 

"Ah,  I  believe  this  is  Elise  Williams.  I'm  not  quite 
sure,"  Fannie  spoke  in  an  undertone. 

The  road  was  narrow,  the  bluff  shelving  down  pre- 
cipitately in  a  dangerous-looking  fashion  to  which  the 
mountaineers  seem  calmly  indifferent. 

"Horrors !  you  don't  intend  to  drive  by  that  convey- 
ance, Linda.     We'll  certainly  be  killed." 

"One  might  think  you'd  been  brought  up  in  the 
sand  hills,  Fannie.    There  is  no  danger." 

"If  the  young  lady  is  frightened  I'll  lead  your 
horse,"  the  young  man  gave  the  lines  to  one  of  the 
ladies  in  his  surrey,  alighted  and,  lifting  his  hat,  took 
Linda's  horse  by  the  bridle,  and  led  him  carefully  past 
his  own  conveyance  keeping  on  the  inside  while  the 
surrey  passed  slowly  by  on  the  other  side. 

"Thank  you  so  much." 

He  bowed  and  smiled,  went  back  to  the  surrey  and 
interchanged  a  few  words  with  its  occupants,  then 
hurried  around  and  stopped  Linda's  horse  again. 

"I  beg  pardon,  but  my  sister  thinks  she  knows  this 
young  lady.     Is  it  Miss  Everett,  of  Brevard?" 

"Yes,  and  your  sister  is  Miss  Elise  WilHams?  I 
was  sure  of  it.  I  am  delighted.  My  friend,  Miss 
Graham,  Mr.  Williams." 

Fannie's  voice  was  the  signal  for  the  young  lady 
in  the  surrey  to  get  out  and  come  forward.  Then 
followed  a  lively  conversation  in  hearty  school-girl 
style. 

There  were  promises  of  an  early  call  and  insistence 
from  Elise  that  a  part  of  the  coming  month  be  spent 

129 


In   tht  J!3antal)alast 


by  Fannie  and  Linda  as  guests  in  her  home.  Mrs. 
Williams  seconded  the  invitation  warmly  and,  after 
a  few  moments  of  happy,  if  not  coherent  talk,  the  par- 
ties drove  on  their  separate  ways,  the  surrey  making 
room  for  Bob's  wagon  as  he  came  up. 

"I  am  glad  of  this,  especially  for  your  sake,  Fannie. 
There  is  promise  of  some  social  pleasure  for  you  now. 
I  had  nothing  to  offer  you  unless,  indeed,  I  felt  free 
to  call  Harry  in." 

"But  I  came  to  see  you,  beloved." 


130 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

FANNIE. 

If  Linda  had  felt  any  uneasiness  as  to  the  manner 
in  which  Fannie  would  fit  into  her  aunt's  home  her 
mind  was  soon  set  at  rest.  The  girl  captured  them  all 
by  her  happy  nature,  her  free-and-easy  fellowship. 
She  won  the  mother's  heart  by  her  camaraderie  with 
Jack,  her  kindness  to  the  girls  and  her  gentle  consid- 
eration for  herself. 

"I  dreaded  her  just  a  little  bit,  Linda.  Seems 
like  we've  been  raised  so  different  from  folks  in  town 
or  below  the  mountains,  but  she's  just  as  common  as 
any  of  us.  There  ain't  any  'put  on'  about  her.  'N' 
she  'pyears  to  be  bavin'  a  plum  good  time.  It's  funny 
to  see  her  and  Jack  an'  that  little  contrary  pony.  Don't 
you  think  he  throwed  her  clean  off  this  mornin'  'n'  she 
gets  right  up  *n'  mounts  him  again  while  Jack  holds 
him  for  her?" 

"Yes,  she  told  me.  She  is  full  of  talk  about  Jack ; 
thinks  he  is  such  a  bright  boy  below  that  dry  way  he 
has  of  talking." 

It  did  Linda  good  to  see  her  aunt  brighten  under 
the  new  surroundings.  With  the  comforts  of  the  new 
house,  the  hardest  drudgery  done  by  a  woman  who 
came  to  help  three  days  out  of  the  week,  the  tired 
mother's  life  took  on  fresh  hope  and  vigor.  She 
was  anxious  to  have  her  young  daughters  follow  in 
the  ways  of  those  who  were  bringing  the  outer  world 

131 


3ln   t6e   Jf^antaftalas 


among  them,  the  big  world  with  its  finer  speech,  its 
greater  ease  of  manner, — all  those  countless  little 
things  that  emphasize  the  difference  between  crudity 
and  culture.  Yet  deep  within  the  unlettered  woman's 
heart  was  the  mountaineer's  pride,  keeping  her  free 
from  cringeing  imitation,  and  giving  to  her  a  touch 
of  dignity  that  won  the  respect  of  those  around  her. 

In  all  her  life  she  had  never  known  the  happiness 
of  this  time.  Miss  Wells,  with  her  tact  and  deep 
spiritual  nature,  had  long  been  a  source  of  comfort 
to  her.  From  the  missionary  the  mountain  woman  had 
imbibed  a  calmer,  more  cheerful  view  of  religion  and 
its  bearing  on  one's  daily  life.  And  if  she  had  lost 
somewhat  of  that  tense  emotionalism  which  once  char- 
acterized her  religious  experience  she  had  gained  a 
surer  hold  on  the  larger  truths  of  the  Christian  life. 

These  things  conspired  to  brighten  the  woman  and 
bring  new  cheer  into  the  home. 

Harry  Turner  had  become  a  frequent  visitor  since 
Fannie's  arrival.  Elise  Williams  and  her  brother 
called  within  a  few  days  after  her  coming.  Then 
began  a  series  of  visits,  picnics  and  little  excursions 
to  points  of  interest  in  the  mountains.  In  making 
up  these  the  young  people  turned  to  Miss  Wells,  not 
so  much  as  chaperone  in  the  usual  sense,  but  because 
her  presence  brightened  the  whole  party.  She  went 
into  such  things  with  the  zest  of  unconquerable  youth, 
and  if  her  influence  was  always  directed  toward  posi- 
tive right  it  was  in  a  way  so  quiet  and  unobtrusive  she 
never  repelled. 

During  this  time  Mr.  Ledroux  had  written  letters  to 
Linda  that  kept  the  girl  in  a  state  of  unrest.  They 
were  influenced  by  the  mood  of  the  hour,  and  at 
times  would  be  filled  with  protestations  of  love  and 

132 


In   tf)e  ii5amaf)ala0 


earnest  talk  of  her  influence  over  him,  how  life  was 
taking  on  a  different  coloring  for  him  under  the  power 
of  this  mighty  passion. 

"I  wasted  the  emotions  of  my  youth.  Long  ago  I 
gave  up  any  thought  of  being  dominated  by  one  su- 
preme love.  It  seemed  to  me  that  men  and  women 
were  like  cogs  in  the  wheels  of  complicated  machin- 
ery. They  fit, — then  a  sudden  break  displaces  the 
cogs.  When  the  machinery  starts  again  the  work- 
ing may  be  as  smooth  as  it  was  before  the  displace- 
ment. Of  course  this  belief  does  away  with  all  fanci- 
ful notions  about  matches  being  made  in  heaven,  about 
Providence  having  anything  to  do  with  the  matter  at 
all.  But  when  I  think  of  you  I  am  ready  to  believe 
that  some  mighty  creative  force  made  you  for  my 
mate,  kept  you,  and  gave  you  to  me  while  your  heart 
is  fresh  and  pure  and  all  untarnished  by  the  world. 
But,  great  God !  that  God  in  whom  you  believe  so 
strongly, — what  right  have  I  to  claim  your  purity,  to 
fancy  that  you  were  intended  for  me  who  have  only 
imperfectness  to  match  with  your  completeness?" 
Again  his  letters  would  betray  the  old  cynic  mood 
wherein  the  scoffer  spared  little  that  came  upon  his 
notice.  After  receiving  one  of  these  Linda  would 
move  more  quietly  among  her  friends,  and  Fannie 
would  redouble  her  efforts  to  bring  the  smile,  the 
happy  light  to  the  girl's  eyes. 

"I  don't  one  bit  like  it.  Miss  Wells.  Whenever  the 
time  comes  that  I  am  engaged  you'll  see  one  happy 
little  silly,  for  I  shall  love  with  my  whole  being  before 
I  make  any  promises.  Of  course  Linda  loves  the 
man,  and,  indeed,  he  is  handsome  enough  and  fasci- 
nating enough,  for  any  use,  but  he  has  never  made  her 
happy.    She  was  all  upset  when  they  were  at  Eagle's 

133 


3n   the  J3antai)alag 


Nest  together  last  summer  and  you  see  how  his  let- 
ters affect  her  now.  Has  she  talked  much  to  you 
about  him?" 

"Not  since  she  first  told  me  of  him.  She  is  a  bit 
shy  about  the  whole  matter,  but  I  would  be  surprised 
if  she  were  otherwise." 

"Certainly  I  don't  expect  her  to  be  demonstrative 
over  anything,  but  she  is  so  restless,  so  unsettled. 
You'd  look  for  a  girl  of  her  sort  to  be  quietly  happy, 
in  a  deep,  still  way,  you  know,  like  a  mountain  lake 
that  reflects  all  the  beauty  and  light  around  it.  Now 
don't  you  think  that's  a  bloomin'  fine  metaphor,  simile 
or  whatever?  Acknowledge  that  your  new  friend 
has  more  profundity  than  you  had  imagined,"  and 
Fannie  snatched  the  little  woman  around  the  waist, 
swung  her  in  a  giddy  whirl  down  the  length  of  the 
side  porch  and  fetched  up  with  a  sudden  jerk  just  as 
a  door  opened  nearby. 

"Sh — sh  !  Odds  bodykins  !  Some  one  appears  and 
will  behold  the  missionary  in  the  act  of  waltzing 
with  one  of  the  worldly-minded. 

"Ah,  it's  only  Miss  Graham  who  sometimes  hath  a 
worldly  mind  herself.  Behold!  She  hath  news  to 
communicate.  I  know  it  by  the  flush  upon  her  face 
and  the  fire  within  those  orbs  of  light,"  and  Fannie 
struck  a  theatrical  attitude  in  front  of  Linda  while 
Miss  Wells  smoothed  her  own  ruflled  hair  and  ad- 
justed her  collar. 

"Indeed  I  do  have  news,"  Linda  looked  from  one 
to  the  other,     "This  is  a  letter  from " 

"The  conquering  hero  comes,  I'm  sure  of  it.  Is  it 
the  caitiff,  Ledroux?    And  he  comes?    Then " 

"Mr.  Ledroux  is  at  Eagle's  Nest  and  proposes  to 
come  on  here  in  a  few  days,  if  I  am  willing." 

134 


In   tbt  Ji5anta!)ala0 


"My  reign  is  ended.  'Hail  to  the  chief  who  in  tri- 
umph advances.'  Let  me  subdue  my  feelings  and  meet 
him  with  becoming  fortitude,  though  I  shall  forever 
cherish  dire  animosity  against  him." 

"Seriously,  shall  I  let  him  come?  What  do  you 
think,  Miss  Wells  ?"  _ 

"Why  not,  if  it  suits  your  aunt?" 

"She  doesn't  object.  I've  just  spoken  to  her." 

"Yes,  let  him  come  on  and  see  if  Jack  and  I  can't 
play  some  prank  on  him  to  get  him  out  of  that  sixteenth 
century  grand  manner  of  his — that  heirloom  manner." 

"He  will  probably  be  here  then  at  the  time  of  the 
Selden  reunion,  I'd  hate  to  miss  that.  It  was  so  good 
of  the  Williams  family  to  invite  us." 

"Take  him  along,"  said  Fannie,  "and  let  him  see 
more  than  a  hundred  'Hill  Billies'  together  at  one  time, 
in  all  their  native  wildness  and  benightedness. 

"I'd  enjoy  seeing  the  impression  a  regular  'grand 
seignieur'  would  make  on  some  of  those  bush-men." 

"Fannie,  you  are  incorrigible.  I'm  afraid  you'll  be 
scoring  me  for  coming  down  to  teach  the  'mountain 
whites' !" 

"No,  you  precious  little  creature,  I  forgive  you  for 
all  mistakes  you  ever  made  since  the  time  you  used 
to  put  the  baby  Hindus  to  bed  with  a  prayer  and  then 
go  out  and  call  them  'rectangular  parallelopipedons'  to 
ease  your  lacerated  feelings — or  temper,  if  you  prefer 
plain  English." 

"Really  I  sometimes  fear  my  time  is  being  wasted," 
sighed  Miss  Wells.  "I  have  found  things  so  different 
from  what  I  expected,  and  often  I  feel  that  the  people 
may  consider  my  very  presence  an  insult.  Since 
knowing  the  town  of  Franklin  I  am  more  than  ever 
in  doubt  about  the  wisdom  of  working  here." 

135 


In  ttie  jeanta!)ala0 


"You  shall  not  feel  that  way,"  said  Linda.  "Re- 
member what  you  have  been  to  us.  The  world  is  a 
different  place  for  me  because  of  you." 

"Yes,  and  Harry  says  you've  helped  him  more  than 
he  can  tell.  You  don't  know  how  he  honors  you.  But 
you  never  came  among  the  mountain  people  with  what 
Lawyer  McEachern,  of  Asheville,  calls  'damned  super- 
cilious airs'." 

"Oh!  Fannie,  don't!  That's  too  horrible — to  quote 
an  oath  is  almost  as  bad  as,  as " 

"As  improvising  one?  I  do  beg  your  pardon,  you 
dear  little  preacher,  and  I  promise  you  to  be  more  care- 
ful in  the  future.  Now  kiss  me.  Reverend  Wells,  and 
tell  me  that  I  am  a  superior  young  woman  in  spite  of 
my  failings." 

"Indeed  you  are,  Fannie.  All  your  nonsense  does 
not  hide  the  real  girl  whose  heart  is  gold." 

"Thank  you  for  the  words.  They  will  help  to  make 
me  better,"  and  Fannie's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"You  don't  need  to  be  better,"  Linda  spoke  with 
emphasis.  "You  never  hesitate  where  the  right  is  con- 
cerned, if  you  do  have  an  original  way  of  doing 
things." 

"And  this  in  spite  of  my  tendency  to  slang?  My 
general  silliness?  A  fine  deliverance  for  you,  O, 
Queen  of  Hearts.  I  shall  grow  good  in  spite  of  my- 
self if  you  continue  to  praise  me.  'Thy  gentleness  hath 
made  me  great',"  and  Fannie  made  a  profound  bow 
to  her  friend. 

"You  referred  to  the  town  of  Franklin  a  while 
ago.  What  special  thing  in  connection  with  that  place 
has  put  you  into  mourning  over  your  having  come 
'down  like  a  wolf  on  the  fold'  to  compel  these  poor 
mountaineers  to  be  good  ?"  Fannie  turned  again  toward 
Miss  Wells. 

136 


Kn  tht  BmmWafi 


"Franklin  is  such  an  exceptional  village,  that's  all. 
I  have  never  seen  so  much  real  culture — not  showiness, 
understand — as  there  is  in  that  bit  of  a  town.  Of 
course  I  mean  such  a  percentage  of  cultured  people. 
It's  all  so  genuine,  so  unpretending,  so  thoroughly  de- 
lightful. Here  I've  been  lending  my  little  collection 
of  books  to  boys  and  girls,  any  one  who  cared  for 
them,  and  over  there  is  a  good  library  absolutely  free 
to  every  citizen  of  the  county." 

"Yes,"  said  Linda ;  "but  if  you  had  not  been  among 
us,  directing  our  reading  and  helping  us  to  love  books, 
a  library  at  that  distance  could  have  done  us  little 
good." 

"Perhaps,"  Miss  Wells  spoke  doubtfully;  "but  the 
whole  county  is  bound  to  be  influenced  by  the  town. 
It's  a  leaven  that  works  from  within  too,  not  an  effort 
from  the  outside.  And  your  county  has  had  a  compul- 
sory educational  law  for  several  years ;  besides  you 
anticipated  state  prohibition." 

"All  this  doesn't  mean  that  your  work  is  not  needed 
among  us.  While  we  don't  have  the  feuds  and  ven- 
dettas and  other  romantic  embellishments  that  Mr. 
Fox's  or  Miss  Murfree's  mountaineers  have,  there  are 
plenty  of  hiding  places  for  moonshiners  and  sometimes 
a  murder  strikes  home  to  us  all.  Remember  how  the 
preacher's  wife  laughed  over  the  calm  way  the  little 
Jap  addressed  her  that  Sunday  afternoon  ?  When  she 
started  to  shake  hands  he  casually  remarked:  'Will 
you  excuse  me  while  I  wash  my  hands  ?  There  was  a 
murder  down  there  in  the  road  and  I  got  bloody.' 
And  that,  mind  you,  his  first  appointment  to  preach 
in  our  county — a  heathen  Jap  studying  for  the  minis- 
try in  this  Christian  land.  Oh !  we  need  you,  and  you 
are  doing  a  world  of  good  among  us.     Just  think  of 

137 


3n   t6e  j^antaijalas; 


what  a  difference  there  is  in  Coon  Bletcher  and  hii, 
wife  since  you've  been  a  friend  to  them." 

"But  you  know  Harry  did  more  for  Coon  that  I 
have  done." 

Fannie  laid  a  firm  hand  over  Miss  Wells's  mouth. 
"Will  you  be  pleased  to  abstain  from  disputation  which 
profiteth  nothing,  Right  Reverend  little  woman?  You 
are  the  salt  of  the  earth,  and  you  are  savoring  the  very 
spot  in  the  universe  that  needs  you,  and  you  shall 
not  have  any  more  such  blue  Monday  discourse.  Come 
with  me.  Susan  went  down  to  the  spring  to  churn  an 
hour  ago,  I  pine,  I  thirst,  I  hone  for  buttermilk. 
Come." 


138 


CHAPTER  XVIL 

THE  lover's  coming. 

"I  have  been  sick,  depressed,  out  of  love  with  Hfe, 
and  I  need  you  sorely.  I  do  not  expect  to  stay  long 
at  Eagle's  Nest  in  any  event,  but  if  you  let  me  come 
to  you  I  will  hurry  across  from  some  convenient  point 
on  the  IMurphy  road.  You  will  let  me  come?"  His 
letter  had  run  thus.  The  words  appealed  to  the 
woman-heart  more  than  any  impassioned  eloquence, 
and  as  the  time  came  on  for  his  arrival  she  found 
herself  anxiously  expectant,  longing  for  the  sight  of 
her  lover,  imagining  the  look  of  him,  the  glad  light 
leaping  to  his  eyes,  the  old  compelling  mastery  of  his 
presence. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  day  he  was  expected  Fannie 
announced  that  she  was  going  to  help  about  the  kitchen 
and  dining-room. 

"I  propose  to  make  myself  invisible  to  the  gentle- 
man till  tea-time,  then  I  shall  dazzle  him  by  my  beauty 
and  culinary  skill.  In  the  meantime.  Linda,  suppose 
you  adorn  yourself  and  go  to  meet  your  lord.  Really, 
I  think  it  would  be  a  good  plan  for  you  to  take  Miss 
Wells  and  go  for  a  walk  in  the  Nantahala  direction. 
You  might  be  gathering  flowers,  but  that's  entirely  too 
suggestive  of  Persephone  and  the  infernal  regions,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  dark-browed  gentleman  who  drove 
the  chariot.  Go  along  with  you,  and  take  care  of  your 
over-burdened   heart   while   I    devise   some   tempting 

139 


in   tht  jeantatjalag 


dessert  to  supplement  Aunt  Sarah's  fried  chicken  and 
eggs  and  such." 

"Shall  we  go,  Linda?"  asked  Miss  Wells. 

"I  think  I  should  like  the  woods,"  answered  Linda, 
and  later,  dressed  in  simple  white  and  accompanied  by 
her  friend,  the  girl  went  toward  the  belt  of  trees  that 
borders  the  little  valley  beyond  the  house  as  you  go 
toward  the  enclosing  mountains. 

The  sweet  stillness  and  all  the  solemn  beauty  of 
the  scene  sank  into  the  heart  of  the  girl.  As  they 
came  into  the  cool  depths  of  the  grove  Linda  mur- 
mured ; 

"  'Into  the  woods  my  Master  went, 
And  he  was  clean  forspent,  forspent.' 

I  wish  it  was  possible  for  me  to  tell  Sidney  Lanier 
what  he  has  been  to  me.  That  must  be  one  of  the 
greatest  rewards  a  writer  has,  the  knowing  that  his 
words  have  helped  others  to  a  better  life." 

"You  seem  to  have  the  one  high  conception  of 
literature.  But  your  great  critics  would  tell  you  that's 
a  child's  view,  that  literature  is  only  truth  in  portrayal 
of  life,  whatever  the  effect." 

"Oh,  I  don't  believe  it.  Doing  right  or  wrong 
makes  up  so  much  of  life,  surely  whatever  bears  on 
that  is  worth  everything  to  us."  As  she  said  the 
words  her  mind  went  back  to  the  evenings  when  Le- 
droux  had  read  to  her  and  Mrs.  De  Jarnette  and  had 
discussed  the  books  afterward.  His  views  had  jarred 
on  her  then  and  now  the  thought  of  it  gave  her 
poignant  grief.  Always  there  was  the  discordant  note 
of  cynicism,  the  scoffing  at  any  ethical  tendency. 

"Tolstoi?  He  has  elements  of  greatness,  I  grant 
you,  and  sometimes  he  is  fine,  but  he  continually  ob- 
scures his  power  by  preaching. 

140 


M  tht  i^antaf)ala0 


"Poe  is  your  true  American  poet  writing  for  all  time 
and  places.  Lowell,  and,  perhaps,  Longfellow,  might 
have  written  poetry  if  they  had  been  able  to  get  away 
from  the  New  England  conscience." 

How  well  she  remembered  such  phrases,  burned  into 
her  brain  at  the  time  by  the  charm  of  the  man,  his  per- 
fection of  manner,   his  dominating  intellectuality. 

Linda  did  not  speak  of  these  things  to  her  friend. 

All  the  tenderness  of  her  nature  had  been  stirred  by 

Ledroux's  letter,  and  she  could  not  bear  to  criticise 

him. 

*         *         * 

They  met  him  there  where  the  road  winds  around 
the  rocky  hillside  and  comes  steeply  down  to  cross  a 
ravine.  He  dismounted,  and,  leading  his  horse, 
walked  beside  her.  The  glory  of  a  mountain  wood 
was  about  them,  the  richness  of  green  things,  the  fine 
aura  which  is  too  elusive  and  delicate  to  be  called  an 
odor,  but  suggests  the  breath  of  a  hama-dryad.  The 
soft  haze  of  approaching  evening  surrounded  them,  the 
half-sad  and  wholly  tender  stillness  that  falls  on  the 
woods  when  birds  are  quieting  down  for  the  night  and 
only  send  out  a  few  faint  notes  of  love,  calling  their 
mates  who  are  still  a-wing. 

"You  seem  some  spirit  of  the  wilds,  some  dryad 
whose  home  is  here.  I  have  often  fancied  you  just 
this  way,  coming  toward  me  in  the  dusk  of  the  forest 
— and  in  white,  too !  Let  me  touch  you,  Linda,  and 
see  that  you  are  quite  real  and  not  a  nymph  who  flies 
at  my  approach."    He  laid  his  hand  gently  on  hers. 

They  had  paused  for  the  horse  to  drink  from  the 
crystal  waters  of  the  brook.  Miss  Wells  had  walked 
on,  leaving  the  lovers  alone. 

Linda  looked  up  in  his  face.  Something  had 
changed  him.  It  was  as  if  a  blight — just  the  first  faint 
10  141 


In  the  laama^alag 


touch  of  age — had  dimmed  the  brilHance  of  his  eyes, 
had  hung  across  his  face  a  shadow,  dusky,  if  almost 
imperceptible. 

"You  are  not  well.     I  see  it." 

"I  am  not.  And,  you  know,  men  are  impatient  with 
that  sort  of  thing.  We  need  to  be  braced  by  a  woman. 
I  do  need  you,  Linda.  You  are  my  hope  of  salvation 
for  time  and  eternity." 

"Don't,  O  don't !  No  living  being  can  be  that  to 
you." 

"You  have  unsettled  me,  little  girl;  now  you  must 
do  your  best  to  fix  my  faith." 

"I  don't  understand." 

"Don't  you  see?  Long  ago  I  had  pushed  aside  all 
questions  of  a  religious  sort  except  as  they  were 
forced  on  me.  Agnosticism  seemed  to  me  the  only 
rational  attitude.  I  cannot  reason  myself  into  any- 
thing else,  but  of  late,  since  knowing  you,  and  espe- 
cially since  you  belong  to  me,  I  do  not  find  myself 
able  to  drive  these  things  out  of  my  mind.  Life  is 
worth  more  to  me  than  ever  before,  yet  the  very  full- 
ness of  it  saddens  me.  Shall  I  hold  you  a  year,  ten, 
twenty,  even  thirty  years,  simply  to  lose  you  forever? 
The  thought  is  maddening,  and  I  know  nowhere  to 
turn  for  relief  unless  you  can  help  me.  Can't  you, 
sweetheart?  Come  to  me  now.  Marry  me  to-morrow 
— to-day.    Will  you?" 

"O,  I  can't,  I  can't." 

"You  mean  you  do  not  love  me  well  enough.  Is  it 
that?" 

"No,  no.  I  do  love  you,  but  there  are  other  things 
to  think  of.  I  will  get  ready  soon,  but  not  now.  You 
do  not  mean  it?" 

"Perhaps  it  was  unreasonable  of  me  to  expect  it," 
he  said  quietly  as  they  started  on  the  homeward  road. 

142 


In   tht  i^antafjalas 


Meeting  her  lover  thus,  his  appeal  to  her,  lifted  the 
girl  to  a  high  plane  and  smoothed  out  all  difficulties 
she  might  have  foreseen  in  bringing  him  into  her 
aunt's  family. 

In  the  case  of  her  grandfather  the  uplift  of  her 
emotions  had  made  her  indifferent  to  the  luxury  of 
his  home.  Now  the  same  exaltation  brought  her  to 
realize  the  slight  difference  there  is  between  the  un- 
lettered and  the  cultured  where  the  vital  things  of 
the  heart  are  at  issue. 

When  they  reached  the  house  Aliss  Wells  and  Mrs. 
Gentry  met  them  on  the  porch,  and  if  the  latter  felt 
any  fear  of  the  city-bred  man  it  showed  itself  only  in 
additional  quiet  of  manner. 

While  Linda  had  not  been  over-communicative 
toward  Mr.  Ledroux  she  had  been  honest.  He  knew 
the  intellectual  barrenness  of  her  early  life  and  how 
Miss  Wells,  with  her  friendship  and  sweet  womanly 
wisdom,  had  stirred  the  sleeping  nature  of  the  girl. 

Thus  forewarned,  and  filled,  moreover,  with  the  cus- 
tomary notions  of  the  mountaineer's  ignorance,  law- 
lessness and  skill  at  moonshining,  there  was  no  dan- 
ger that  Ledroux  would  talk  above  the  heads  of 
his  audience. 

The  evening  passed  off  pleasantly,  though  Bob  and 
Jack  refused  to  eat  before  the  new  guest. 

"Shucks !  I  can't  eat  without  chokin'  before  stran- 
gers, nohow.  Miss  Fannie,  and  I'll  tend  to  the  pony 
an'  feed  his  horse  an'  wait  for  the  last  table." 

"Jack,  Jack,  don't  murder  the  President's  English 
so.  You  mean  you  can't  eat  before  strangers  with- 
out choking,  and  you  shouldn't  say  'nohow'." 

"Now,  Miss  Fannie,  don't  you  go  to  goin'  back  on 
me,  that  way.  Callie  and  Susan  worry  me  mor'n  a 
little  about  my  grammar.     They  air  gitting  pow'ful 

143 


M  the  i^antal)ala0 


airish,  it  'pears  to  me.  A  feller  hain't  got  time  to 
watch  ever'  breath  he  draws.  He's  got  to  have  a 
little  while  to  grow  in." 

"But  I  want  you  to  speak  correctly.  Some  day  you 
may  be  a  big  lawyer  or  preacher,  then  you'll  thank 
me  for  trying  to  purify  your  English." 

"Do  you  kyer  what  sort  o'  talk  I  have,  sho'  'nough?" 

"Certainly,  Jack." 

"Then  I'll  be  doggoned  if  I  don't  do  better." 


144 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE   REUNION. 

To  the  city-worn  man  those  days  in  the  Nantahalas 
were  idylHc.  The  lure  of  the  mountains,  the  old 
primeval  call  back  to  nature,  made  themselves  felt  and 
heard.  They  lived  much  in  the  open.  As  at  Eagle's 
Nest,  the  year  before,  he  and  Linda  would  take  long 
tramps  through  the  woods,  usually  with  Miss  Wells 
and  Fannie  or  the  Gentry  girls  accompanying  them.  A 
camping  party  to  the  Wayah  Bald  was  made  up,  with 
Miss  Wells  as  chaperone.  Elise  Williams  and  her 
brother  joined  them  in  this  trip  and  with  Fannie  in 
good  trim,  as  she  announced,  there  was  no  lack  of 
fun  for  the  younger,  or  livelier  members  of  the  party. 

While  on  this  excursion  reference  was  made  to  the 
family  gathering  which  was  to  be  held  at  the  Williams' 
home  within  a  few  days,  and  Elise  extended  an  invi- 
tation to  Mr.  Ledroux. 

"I'm  dreadfully  uneasy  about  it,  though,"  declared 
Elise  to  Fannie  later.  "He  seems  so — he  has  such 
beautiful  manners." 

"Beautiful !  Beau-eau-eautiful,"  murmured  Fannie. 
"He  is  such  an  adorable  mixture  of  Sir  Charles  Gran- 
dison  and  Beau  Brummel  you  fear  that  Cousin  Henry 
might  take  large  bites  of  pie  in  his  presence,  or  Cousin 
John  might  disgrace  the  connection  by  dropping  a  g 
or  eliding  an  /.  It's  a  critical  situation  you  are  in.  I 
suggest  that  you  send  out  letters  except  to  those  who 

145 


Kn   tht   Ii5antai)a!a0 


have  'phones,  and  implore  them  to  watch  their  g's  and 
I's  as  well  as  mind  their  p's  and  q's!"  This  last  was 
delivered  in  a  tragic  whisper. 

"You're  as  full  of  nonsense  as  ever,  Fannie  Ever- 
ett," and  Elise  laughed. 

"You  mean  by  that,  you  consider  me  a  wise,  young 

philosopher,  who  has  gripped  Life  by  the  right  hand 

and  means  to  make  the  most  of  her.     Mr,  Ledroux 

does  look  the  polished  man  of  the  world  ;  but,  privately, 

if  I  were  you,  I'd  give  myself  no  uneasiness.     Real 

manhood  is  the  thing  that  counts  after  all." 

*         *         * 

The  morning  of  the  reunion  found  Linda,  her 
guests.  Miss  Wells  and  the  two  Gentry  girls  joining 
the  crowd  that  drove  through  the  big  gate  and  into 
the  grove  that  surrounds  the  Williams  home.  Bug- 
gies, wagons,  surreys,  filled  with  happy-looking  peo- 
ple,— laughing  children  along  with  soberer  age, 
thronged  the  place  and  gave  it  a  holiday  aspect. 

Elise's  brother  met  Linda's  party  at  the  gate  and 
led  the  conveyance  around  through  the  grove  to  the 
front  of  the  house  where  the  ladies  of  the  Williams 
family  welcomed  the  party  and  introduced  them  to 
various  members  of  the  connection  who  happened  to 
be   near. 

The  crowd  was  falling  into  groups.  Here  and 
there  on  the  spacious  lawn  were  young  people  sit- 
ting on  the  grass  laughing  and  talking,  while  on 
the  side  porches  and  the  big  front  rooms  and  hall  the 
older  people  were  settling  for  conversation. 

As  Elise  led  them  into  the  house  she  paused  near 
a  group  of  elderly  ladies  who  were  sitting  on  the 
front   porch. 

"Linda,  Fannie ;  all  of  you,  I  want  you  to  meet 
our  Aunt  Janet,  Mrs.  Thompson,"  Fannie  spoke  in  low 

146 


Kn   tbt  jfi^antai)ala0 


tones.  "We  think  she  is  a  great  woman.  She  is 
certainly  one  of  the  best  women  I  have  ever  known. 
Shall    I    introduce   you    now?" 

"Certainly.  Yes,  indeed,"  Linda  moved  onward, 
followed  by  the  rest  of  the  party. 

The  center  of  the  group  and  the  oldest  of  its 
members  was  a  white-haired  lady  upon  whose  face 
the  record  of  beautiful  years  had  left  its  mark. 
Dressed  plainly  and  with  absolute  disregard  of  pre- 
vailing style,  there  was  still  something — an  indescrib- 
able something — that  marked  her  as  being  superior  to 
the  accident  of  clothes  or  other  outside  accompani- 
ments. In  youth  she  could  not  have  been  pretty. 
Her  features  were  too  strong  and  rugged  to  suggest 
feminine  beauty,  but  a  wonderful  charm  rested  upon 
her.  That  face  was  so  full  of  benignity,  so  alight 
with  beauty  of  soul,  everyone  felt  its  power.  She 
shook  hands  with  the  young  people  as  they  were 
presented  to  her. 

"Will  you  sit  here  with  the  old  folks  or  would 
you  rather  be  out  among  the  younger  ones?  We 
like  to  have  our  friends  feel  perfectly  at  home  when 
they    attend   these   gatherings." 

"There  are  others  I'd  like  to  have  you  meet.  Later 
you  may  come  back  to  Aunt  Janet." 

A  few  moments  in  the  house,  meeting  different 
ones,  mainly  elderly  and  middle-aged  ladies,  then  on 
to  the  lawn  where  the  party  was  broken  up,  some 
lingering  with  one  cluster  of  youngsters,  while  others 
passed  on  with  Elise. 

"Ah !  I  didn't  know  you  were  here,  Harry,  You 
remember  Mr.  Ledroux,  Mr.  Turner?"  Linda  had 
passed  near  two  young  men  who  were  seated  under 
a  tree  in  earnest  conversation.  Glancing  back  she 
recognized   Harry   and   paused.     He   came    forward 

147 


In   tfje   Ii^antal)ala0 


and  offered  his  hand.  "Yes,  my  friend  here — Mr. 
Lytle,  Miss  Graham,  Mr,  Ledroux — was  good 
enough  to  ask  me.  He's  on  the  inside,  you  know. 
Are  you  a  collateral,  Ben?" 

"No ;  a  direct  descendant.  If  there's  anything  to 
be  made  out  of  being  a  Selden  here,  to-day,  I  want  to 
claim  it  all.  I  shall  expect  as  big  a  slice  of  the  old- 
est great-aunt's  cake  as  any  of  them." 

"Is  a  great-aunt's  cake  one  of  the  features  of  the 
occasion?"    asked   Ledroux. 

"Yes ;  a  replica  of  the  one  made  for  her  wedding 
feast." 

"Mr.  Ledroux,  I  will  leave  you  to  the  care  of  these 
young  men.    I  want  the  girls  a  few  minutes." 

A  little  later  Elise  called  to  young  Lytle  to  come, 
as  he  was  needed  in  arranging  the  table. 

"An  unusual  gathering  this,  Mr.  Turner,"  said 
Ledroux.  "American  families  scatter  so  widely  a 
reunion  of  this  size  is  out  of  the  ordinary.  I  take  it 
that  most  of  the  people  here  are  members  of  the 
Selden   family." 

"There  are  only  a  few  guests,  I  believe.  It  strikes 
me  that  it  is  unusual  in  the  make-up  of  the  crowd 
also,  as  well  as  in  its  size." 

"I  agree  with  you.  It  speaks  well  for  your  moun- 
tains that  they  breed  such  men  and  women." 

"I  did  not  mean  to  draw  from  you  anything  in 
praise  of  our  mountains, — I  am  a  native  myself,  sir. 
But  I  had  just  been  looking  over  the  crowd  as  they 
gathered.  Some  are  strangers  to  me,  but  Lytle  and 
I  were  discussing  them.  He  was  giving  me  infor- 
mation. You  see  over  there  several  men — near  that 
oak?"  and  Harry  pointed  in  the  direction  indicated. 

"Yes  ?"  tentatively. 

"The  tall  man,  the  very  slender  one,  is  in  charge 

148 


Kn   tbt  Bantajbalag 


of  the  biggest  church  enterprise  in  the  South.  The 
young  fellow  standing  near  him,  talking  to  him  just 
now,  is  a  physician  in  Asheville.  After  graduating 
from  one  of  our  State  colleges  he  took  his  degree  at 
Columbia.  His  brother,  sitting  on  the  grass  there 
with  the  young  folks,  graduated  at  the  same  college, 
then  spent  two  years  at  Cornell.  His  sister,  who  is 
just  back  from  a  trip  to  Europe,  is  about  here  some- 
where. A  graduate  of  Columbia,  she  is.  Back  with 
the  tall  man  you  see  the  sons  of  Mrs.  Thompson, 
graduates  from  a  Georgia  college — but  I  bore  you." 

"Not  at  all,  ]\Ir.  Turner ;  I  am  interested." 

"The  youngster  over  there  between  those  two  girls 
is  one  of  the  brightest  boys  at  our  University,  while 
his  father,  who  is  too  busy  to  attend  these  meetings, 
does  brilliant  surgical  work, — work  that  would  do 
credit  to  any  city  surgeon.  He  is  said  to  have  one 
of  the  finest  private  libraries  in  the  State.  You  will 
pardon  me  if  I  seem  to  boast  of  our  section — our 
little  corner.  But  you  must  know  we  would  become 
sensitive  after  having  our  ignorance  and  degradation 
exploited  from  one  end  of  the  Union  to  the  other." 

"I  see — and  understand." 

"Why,  sir,  I  find  almost  as  much  misapprehension 
about  the  'mountain  whites,*  down  among  the  fellows 
from  eastern  Carolina  as  you  might  be  expected  to 
have,  or  as  a  Northerner  would  have.  At  first  the 
boys  in  the  University  watched  us  as  if  we  were  ex- 
pected to  be  forever  doing  some  outlandish  thing,  and 
it  was  a  source  of  wonder  to  them  when  we  managed 
to  speak  English  that  they  could  understand.  But  I 
beg  your  pardon.  The  subject  is  one  that  sometimes 
rouses  me,  and  I  have  allowed  myself  to  be  tiresome." 

"No  apologies  are  necessary,  Mr.  Turner.  I  admire 
your  spirit,  and  I  do  not  wonder  that  you  resent  the 

149 


In   tbt  n^antabalag 


attitude  so  many  hold  toward  the  mountain  people. 
It's  due  to  misinformation.  Mr.  Charles  Dudley  War- 
ner says  in  his  'Tour  on  Horseback'  through  the  Caro- 
lina mountains,  that  he  had  thought  nothing  in  Ameri- 
can civilization  could  surprise  him,  but  that  he  was 
surprised  at  the  Worth  home  in  Ashe  County.  I  own 
to  being-  astonished  at  finding  so  much  education  in 
an  isolated  section." 

''Our  little  county  seat,  the  home  of  a  large  part 
of  the  Selden  family,  may  be  exceptional,  but  I  have 
thought  its  very  isolation,  its  quiet,  encouraged  read- 
ing and  thorough  culture." 

"Doubtless." 

In  a  few  moments  Linda  and  Elise  returned.  Not 
long  afterward  "dinner"  was  announced. 

A  long  temporary  table  was  placed  in  the  grove. 
A  knoll  gently  sloping  toward  the  house  offered  an 
ideal  place  for  the  meal.  Here  the  crowd  gathered 
and,  standing  about  the  table  or  in  groups  nearby, 
bowed  their  heads  reverently  while  the  minister  in- 
voked a  blessing.  From  every  home  represented  by 
members  of  the  family,  except  a  few  who  were  in  the 
county  as  guests  for  the  occasion,  hampers  had  been 
brought  filled  with  substantial  food  as  well  as  the 
most  tempting  delicacies.  These  had  been  emptied 
and  spread  on  the  table.  Bright-looking  girls  and 
motherly  women  busied  themselves  in  serving  the 
meal  to  the  crowd,  some  of  them  scattered  through- 
out the  grove. 

The  invited  guests  were  made  to  feel  that  they 
were  conferring  pleasure  by  attending,  and  it  pleased 
Linda  to  see  that  Mr.  Ledroux  was  enjoying  the  sim- 
plicity and   informality   of  the  occasion. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  meal  Linda  was  standing 
alone   at   some   distance   from   the   table  when    Mrs. 

150 


In  tbt  ii5antal)ala0 


Thompson  came  to  her  with  a  cup  of  coffee.  "I  hope 
you  are  enjoying  our  gathering,  Miss  Graham.  Of 
course  it  can't  mean  much  to  outsiders,  but  it  has  al- 
ways been  one  of  the  greatest  pleasures  of  my  life." 

Linda  answered  pleasantly,  and  Mrs.  Thompson 
motioned  to  a  seat  nearby.  *T  am  glad  to  have  this 
opportunity  of  speaking  to  you.  There's  something  I 
want  to  say We've  all  heard  of  your  grand- 
father. It's  a  very  pretty  romance  to  us,  but  I  can 
imagine  how  much  it  means  to  you.  You  do  not  re- 
member your  mother,  I  suppose?" 

"Not  at  all." 

"It  was  of  her  I  wished  to  speak.  She  was  in  our 
home  once — an  hour  or  so.  It  was  during  my  hus- 
band's lifetime  and  I  like  to  think  of  his  kindness  to 
her.  She  had  come  in  on  the  hack  from  Georgia. 
Someone  had  told  her  that  Mr.  Thompson  might  send 
her  on  to  her  sister's  and  she  came  to  see  him  about 

it It  was  only  a  few  months  before  your  birth, 

my  dear." 

There  were  tears  in  the  kind  eyes  as  she  went  on : 

"She  was  so  young  and  quite  pretty,  and we  were 

exceedingly  sorry  for  her.  I  wanted  to  take  her 
in  my  arms  and  mother  her ;  but  there's  nothing  you 

can  say  to  comfort  a  stranger .     I  made  her  stay 

and  rest  awhile.  She  wouldn't  agree  to  spend  the 
night  with  us,  but  we  had  her  take  a  cup  of  coffee 
and  a  bite  to  eat.  Mr.  Thompson  sent  her  on  and 
wouldn't   accept   pay    for   it.      He   had   known   your 

mother's  father and  he  was  anxious,  anyway,  to 

befriend  her.  We  inquired  many  times  about  her 
and  heard  of  her  death  and  that  you  were  in  the  home 
of  a  good  man.  Dear,  I  felt  that  she  was  a  good 
woman  and  I  just  wanted  to  tell  you  so — after  all 
these  years."     She  laid  her  hand  on  Linda's  lap:  "I 

151 


M  tbt  Jl3antal)ala0 


have  made  you  cry  when  I  only  meant  to  make  you 
happier  by  telling  you  how  your  sweet  mother  im- 
pressed two  strangers.  Don't  cry  any  more  now  or 
I  shall  not  forgive  myself  for  spoiling  your  day." 

In  a  few  moments  others  came  up  and  the  conver- 
sation became  general,  but  the  great  heart  of  the 
old  lady  had  accomplished  its  mission — had  quickened 
to  new  life  the  higher  feelings  of  the  girl,  and  given 
her  a  tender  sense  of  nearness  to  the  personality  of 
her  mother. 

At  a  late  hour  the  crowd  again  assembled  in  the 
grove  to  attend  to  the  business  part  of  the  meeting. 
The  exercises  were  opened  with  prayer  by  one  of  the 
ministers  present,  then  came  readings  and  talks  bear- 
ing on  the  lives  of  several  members  of  the  family  who 
had  died  during  the  past  year.  Throughout  this  part 
of  the  exercises  Linda  felt  that  Mr.  Ledroux  had  lost 
the  bright  mood  which  had  possessed  him  much  of  the 
day.  The  cynic  was  once  more  in  the  ascendant  and 
the  girl  was  unhappy. 

For  a  time  after  the  more  serious  part  of  the 
exercises  were  over  there  were  short  speeches  from 
different  ones,  a  bit  of  wit  here,  a  flashing  repartee 
there,  and  the  spirit  of  fun  ran  riot  without  any 
coarseness,  any  unseemly  thrusting,  one  at  another. 
Ledroux  looked  on  with  interest.  Turning  to  Linda, 
he  said :  "This  is  better  than  any  after-dinner  speaking 
I  have  ever  heard." 

"You  notice  the  two  men  who  are  sparring  so  con- 
stantly at  each  other?  They  are  brothers  and  part 
Irish,"  remarked  Harry  who  was  standing  in  the 
group  of  which  Ledroux  formed  a  part. 

"An  explanation  of  their  wit,  you  think?  A  bright 
fam.ily  anyway,  it  seems." 

152 


in   the  Il5anta})ala0 


Finally  there  was  a  speech  from  Mr.  Selden,  the 
minister  of  the  family,  then  a  call  for  his  wife. 

When  she  came  forward  a  hush  fell  upon  the 
crowd.  A  woman  of  striking-  presence,  dignified,  cul- 
tured, refined,  she  impressed  all  about  her  with  her 
charm  as  well  as  her  power. 

In  words  that  fell  like  music  on  the  ear,  she  talked 
to  them  of  their  family,  the  meaning  of  these  reunions, 
how  they  should  become  an  incentive  to  high  en- 
deavor. Those  who  heard  forgot  the  passing  moments 
and  listened  eagerly  for  further  words  as  they  flowed 
on,  beautiful,  thoughtful,  thought-provoking.  And 
through  it  all  rang  a  clear  call  to  the  Christ-life,  a 
call  sweet,  persuasive,  insistent.  When  she  closed 
there  was  silence  for  a  little  space,  then  one  of  the  old 
men  spoke  softly,  asking  the  minister  to  pronounce  a 
benediction.  The  crowd  broke  up  quietly,  some  with 
tears  dimming  their  eyes  as  they  bade  each  other  good- 
by,  others  leaving  a  friendly  jest  in  the  hearer's 
memory. 

Mrs.  Selden's  talk  stirred  Linda  profoundly,  but  a 
single  look  at  Ledroux's  face  sent  a  chill  to  her  heart. 

"Will  it  always  be  so? Am  I  to  hide  the  best,  the 

sweetest  feelings  from  him  in  the  fear  that  he  will 
think  them  silly  or  childish?" 

The  free  spirit  within  her  rebelled  and  later,  when 
Fannie  and  Miss  Wells  spoke  of  Mrs.  Selden's  talk 
as  being  the  one  preeminent  thing  of  the  day,  Linda 
joined  in  with  emphatic  praise  of  it,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  Ledroux  was  listening  with  that  half  smile 
which  she  had  learned  to  associate  with  his  most 
caustic  moods. 


153 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

PERCHANCE   TO  DREAM. 

The  change  to  the  invigorating  air  of  the  moun- 
tains, the  sweet  restful  days  there,  association  with  the 
woman  he  loved,  had  braced  Ledroux,  and,  apparently, 
had  given  him  new  life  and  strength.  Linda's  first 
letters  from  him  bore  signs  of  renewed  hopefulness, 
but  soon  the  light  faded  again.  The  girl  knew  he 
was  unhappy.  She  feared  he  was  ill  beyond  what  he 
acknowdedged.  She  wrote  him  anxiously,  insistently 
— then  waited. 

The  man  dragged  at  his  work,  the  heart  gone  out  of 
it  for  him.  He  lost  again  the  power  to  sleep,  again 
resorted  to  the  drug  that  numbed  his  faculties  and 
gave  him  semblance  of  sleep.  Then  driven  by  his 
physical  and  mental  distress  he  went  to  a  specialist 

in  the  city. 

*        *         * 

Was  the  sun  still  shining?  Or  was  that  dusky  light 
the  fault  of  eyes  that  sometimes,  of  late,  had  played 
him  false?  Men  and  women  on  the  street  seemed  to 
move  in  a  soft  haze.  Vague  shapes  they  were,  now 
indistinct  and  wavering,  now  looming  portentous  be- 
fore him — people  of  a  giant  breed  who  belonged  not  to 
his  race  or  time. 

He  could  not  bear  to  go  home,  that  home  whose 
beauty  and  hallowed  memories  he  had  violated  by  an 
unholy  life.  Half  blindly  he  struck  out  for  one  of 
the  parks.     He  longed  for  silence  and  the  breath  of 

154 


In  tht  jeanta!)ala0 


the  woodland.  He  would  feel  freer,  that  awful  grip- 
ping at  his  heart  might  let  up.  What  was  it  the  man 
had  said,  anyway?  Incurable?  But  sometimes  they 
made  mistakes — these  big  men  who  looked  their  pa- 
tients over  and  asked  a  few  questions,  then  sent  them 
out  to  face  their  fate.  Their  fate?  God  in  heaven — 
if  there  be  a  God !  what  a  mockery  is  life ! — a  few 
years  of  youth,  energy,  abounding  vitality,  then  the 
battle,  long  or  short,  to  renew  the  wasted  forces,  to 
keep  going  the  fire  that  threatens  to  fade  out  at  every 
adverse  breath  of  air. 

He  reached  the  park  and  found  it  almost  deserted. 
It  must  be  too  early  for  people  to  be  out  for  pleas- 
ure. He  looked  at  his  watch.  Was  it  only  an  hour 
ago  that  he  had  gone  into  that  man's  office  ?  It  seemed 
an  age.  He  remembered  dimly  how  he  had  looked 
with  approval  on  the  fittings  of  the  room  into  which 
he  was  shown — the  beauty  of  it,  easy  chairs  and 
couches,  softly  tinted  walls  with  rare  pictures,  choice 
books,  all  the  things  that  suggest  the  refined  use  of 
money.  The  man  must  be  a  connoisseur  as  well  as  a 
famous  physician,  he  had  thought.  At  a  later  hour 
he  had  passed  through  the  same  room  from  the  doc- 
tor's private  office  and  mentally  cursed  the  elegance 
that  mocked  him  in  his  misery — elegance  that  hinted 
at  the  best  things  of  life  and  reminded  him  what 
one  would  lose  when  he  went  forth  on  that  great  final 
quest.  He  might  live  this  way  for  a  few  months — six, 
perhaps — the  end  might  come  at  any  time. 

"I  am  sorry  to  tell  you  this,"  the  doctor  had  said 
at  the  last ;  "but  it  is  not  my  custom  to  evade." 
"Curse  him !  he  might  have  spared  me  a  little," 
thought  the  tortured  man,  then  swore  at  himself  for 
a  fool  since  he  had  been  drawn  to  the  physician  by 
his  reputation  for  absolute  truthfulness. 

155 


Sn  tSe  j^nntaljalas 


He  went  toward  the  most  secluded  part  of  the 
park.  How  the  woodland  brought  back  the  thought 
of  Linda — the  look  of  her  as  she  came  toward  him 
from  the  background  of  greenness!  Linda?  Linda? 
What  about  her?  How  long  was  it  before  they  were 
to  be  married?  Everything  had  grown  confused  and 
indistinct  in  his  brain.  Was  it  still  summer  time? 
The  trees,  the  grass,  the  flowers  bore  no  mark  of  win- 
ter's coming.  Everything  was  aflush  with  life.  Only 
he  carried  about  him  the  sign  of  merciless  decay.  In 
the  autumn  they  were  to  marry.  He  had  plead  for 
the  event  to  be  earlier,  but  she  would  not  agree.  It 
was  all  coming  back  to  him.  Out  of  his  intellectual 
numbness,  this  torpor  of  thought  and  feeling  Linda 
stood  forth,  a  distinct  figure.  Beautiful,  aye — as  a 
Greek  goddess,  but  full  of  womanish  notions  about 
right  and  wrong.  Cast  in  a  narrow  mold !  Would 
she  be  willing  to  marry  him  if  she  knew  everything? 
Did  she  love  him  well  enough?  His  death-warrant 
would  not  stop  her.  Duty  would  send  her,  if  need  be, 
to  the  very  foot  of  a  gallows — but  would  she  go  on, 
knowing  his  past — that  past  which  had  haunted  him 
with  hellish  persistence  of  late? 

He  had  meant  to  tell  her  some  day,  after  they  had 
been  married, — perhaps  years  after.  He  didn't  know 
how  other  men  managed  those  things.  Of  course 
he  had  not  been  worse  than  most  men,  but  he  imagined 
few  of  them  had  the  courage  to  be  honest  with  their 
wives.  But  about  Linda  there  was  something — the 
look  of  those  clear  eyes,  perhaps,  that  made  one  feel 

like  telling  all  the  truth.    And  now ah !  life  was  a 

blur  to  him.  If  that  man  was  right  and  only  a  short 
time  was  left  to  him,  ought  he  to  think  of  allowing 
her  to  join  her  life  to  his  broken  one?  Ought  he  to 
let  her  go  through  the  misery  of  marrying  a  dying 

156 


M  tbc  s^mtnlMm 


man  just  to  brighten  his  last  hours?  If  they  were  mar- 
ried would  not  his  unhappiness  be  added  to  because  of 
the  haunting  dread  of  her  feeling  when  she  found  out 
the  truth  of  his  past  ?  .  .  .  Ought !  ought !  The  word 
had  given  him  little  concern.  His  creed  had  not  in- 
cluded its  sterner  meanings.  His  view  of  life  had 
been  the  sybarite's.  What  right  had  a  Creator  to  put 
a  man  into  a  world  of  pleasures  with  capacity  for 
enjoyment  and  then  bring  punishment  upon  him  for 
grasping  what  was  held  out  to  him  ? 

He  would  go,  yes — that's  it.  He  would  consult  an 
old  physician  who  had  retired  from  practice  long 
ago  because  of  his  age.  Years  before  he  had  been 
the  family  physician  for  the  Ledrouxs.  His  mother 
had  commanded  his  services  at  the  last.  Great  friends 
they  had  been.  For  her  sake  the  old  man  might 
give  him  time  and  careful  attention.  Men  still  said  he 
had  wonderful  skill,  and  occasionally  one  of  the  phy- 
sicians of  the  city  would  carry  a  complicated  case  to 
him  for  consideration  and  advice.  .  .  .  Back  into  the 
heart  of  the  city  again,  slow  of  foot,  but  unwilling  to 
rest  the  tired  body.  He  must  go  home  for  a  moment 
then  out  again  to  see  the  doctor.  A  short  time  in 
his  own  house,  a  few  directions  to  a  servant,  the 
tramp  through  the  crowded  streets,  then  the  man  of 
fate  with  his  verdict.  Not  a  word  of  the  specialist 
at  first,  but  point  by  point,  slowly,  painstakingly,  the 
older  physician  went  over  the  ground,  sounded,  tested, 
queried, — tried  the  mettle  of  each  separate  organ,  then 
went  back  and  tried  again  till  the  evening  hours 
waned  and  men  on  the  streets  were  seeking  their 
homes. 

Then  the  two  men  looked  into  each  other's  eyes 
— long  and  searchingly. 
U  157 


Un   tfte   Jl3anta6ala0 


"Your  mother  was  a  brave  woman and  a 

Christian." 

"I  understand.     How  long  a  time?" 

"Not  more  than  six  months,  I  think, — a  year  at  the 
outside." 

"About  what  Earlham  told  me." 

"Earlham?  Then  you  needn't  have  come  to  me. 
He  makes  no  mistakes  of  that  sort.  If  your  heart  had 
been  the  only  trouble  he  might  have  put  you  off,  but 
when  he  tells  you  a  thing,  depend  on  its  truth." 

"And  there  is  nothing — absolutely  nothing?  I  was 
to  be  married  in  the  fall." 

"Ah !  I  didn't  know.  There  is  nothing  to  be  done — 
so  far  as  my  knowledge  goes.  And  Earlham  is  up 
with  the  very  latest  in  his  line." 

"Yes,"  the  man's  brain  was  mercifully  benumbed. 
He  seemed  to  himself  to  be  discussing  the  fate  of  an- 
other. 

"I  have  heard  of  you  during  these  later  years,  Le- 
droux.  For  your  mother's  sake  I  would  have  been 
glad  to  be  your  friend,  but  you  seemed  to  avoid  me — 
remember?  Let  us  pass  over  that  point  of  your  life 
...  In  these  later  years  I  have  been  hearing  that  you 
were  making  a  great  success  at  the  bar — a  natural 
thing  for  a  Ledroux — but,  now  and  then,  a  rumor 
has  reached  me  that  .  .  .  hurt — hurt.  .  .  .  This  is  no 
time  to  bring  up  the  past  against  you,  Telfair,  Is  it?" 
The  old  man  bent  forward  and  put  his  fingers  lightly 
on  Ledroux's  wrist,  as  if  to  count  his  pulse. 

"How  old  are  you?  I  was  your  mother's  physician 
at  your  birth,  but  the  long  years  confuse  my  memory." 

"I  will  soon  be  thirty-eight." 

"A  young  man  yet.  I  am  old  enough  to  be  your 
grandfather,  and  there  are  some  things  I'd  like  to 
say  to  you,  if  I  may?" 

158 


In  tbt  i^antalialas; 


Ledroux  bowed  his  head  and  murmured  assent. 
"In  our  student  days  we  men  of  the  scalpel  see 
so  much  of  the  purely  physical  side  of  life,  I  think  we 
all  pass  through  a  period  of  doubt  when  we  are 
slipping  loose  from  our  old  moorings  and  out  into  a 
wide  sea — a  troubled  sea.  If  we  hold  ourselves  in 
hand  during  this  time,  we  usually  get  back — perhaps 
not  back  into  the  old  beliefs  exactly,  but  back  into  a 
sense  of  the  spiritual  in  life.  And  any  right-thinking 
man  in  our  profession  will  tell  you  that,  just  as  surely 
as  I've  been  counting  your  pulse,  so  surely  we  find  the 
spiritual  heart-beats  of  men  and  women.  It's  there 
always,  the  soul  of  man,  throbbing,  throbbing — some- 
times beating  itself  out  in  its  struggle  after  God. 

"There's  no  denying  it.  There's  no  evading  it.  The 
one  tremendous  fact  in  life  is  God  Almighty. 

"We  can  no  more  get  away  from  Him  than  we  can 
rid  ourselves  of  the  body's  thralldom  here  on  earth. 

"I  have  stood  by  many  a  dying  man  and  woman. 
Some  have  gone  out  with  no  word ;  but  give  me  the 
sight  of  one  who  faces  the  great  change  with  a  settled 
faith — such  faith  as  your  mother  had,  Telfair." 

Ledroux  looked  at  him   in  wordless  agony. 

The  doctor  went  on :  'T  have  wished  often  that  I 
could  draw  you  to  me  in  some  way,  but  old  age  is 
not  attractive  to  young  men  and  my  life  is  so  shut 
in  there  was  slight  chance  of  our  meeting  unless  you 
had  sought  me  out.  Let  me  be  your  friend  now. 
Come  to  me  sometimes,  will  you  not?  An  old  man 
who  has  watched  the  shadows  lengthen  these  years 
might  help  you." 

"Thank  you." 

The  doctor  waited  for  further  answer,  then  went 
on :  "They  told  me  that  you  had  discarded  what  I 
would  call  your  mother's  religion,  that  you  claim  the 

159 


In   tU   jeantai)ala0 


only  reasonable  attitude  toward  these  disputed  things 
is  that  of  the  agnostic.  Would  you  mind  talking  to 
me?  I,  too,  passed  through  my  age  of  doubt.  There 
was  a  time  when  it  seemed  to  me  I  must  lose  my  grip 
on  God  because  miracles  were  unthinkable,  the  resur- 
rection of  the  body  past  belief — everything  at  chaos 
in  my  mind. 

"  'There's  more  faith  in  honest  doubt,  believe  me, 
than  in  half  your  creeds!'  If  you  have  fought  hon- 
estly for  your  faith  the  time  will  come  when  you  will 
find  peace."  Again  there  was  silence.  "Do  I  talk 
platitudes?  There  are  still  many  things  about  which 
I  do  not  think  as  in  my  early  youth.  I  concede  that 
we  have  gone  to  extremes  in  trying  to  hold  to  the 
letter  of  the  Bible,  but  .  .  .  ah,  I  am  talking  like  one 
of  the  foolish.  Am  skimming  the  surface  at  a  time 
when  I  would  go  down  into  the  very  deeps  and  plumb 
the  still  waters.  Telfair,  there's  truth  in  the  heart 
of  God's  universe,  and  truth  in  the  soul  of  man  to 
respond  to  the  Larger  Truth."  The  doctor  sank  back 
in  his  chair. 

Ledroux  got  up  as  with  an  effort  and  began  walking 
slowly  up  and  down  the  room,  talking  in  a  low  voice : 
"I  was  a  mere  boy  when  I  found  it  impossible  to  be- 
lieve— as  my  mother  did  and  as  most  church  people  of 
my  acquaintance  seemed  to  believe.  If  there  is  an  Al- 
mighty God — thus  I  reasoned — if  He  is  the  one 
Creator,  then  He  is  the  origin  of  sin  and  allows  the 
suffering  of  the  world.  .  .  .  The  old  Calvinist's  God 
seemed  to  me  an  awful  monstrosity,  the  unlovable 
creation  of  unloving  minds.  As  I  grew  older  and  the 
world  of  books  opened  out  before  me  I  read  eagerly 
many  things  that  drove  me  further  from  the  old 
beliefs.  I  was  young  and,  perhaps,  there  was  a  touch 
of  pride  in  my  dealings  with  these  questions.    Looking 

160 


3n   tlje  laantaljalas 


back  I  can  see  that  much  of  my  reading  must  have 
been  done  in  the  search  for  something  to  bolster  up 
my  own  convictions. 

"Every  act  of  a  man's  Hfe,  if  not  obedient  to  the 
hide-bound  laws  of  your  modern  Pharisaism  brings 
upon  the  sinner  condemnation  that  embitters  him.  I 
did  not  care  to  worship  so  stern  a  Master  nor  to  fel- 
lowship with  such  rigid  Puritans.  Thus  it  happened 
that  after  my  mother's  death  the  very  fact  that  she 
had  been  a  religious  woman  drove  me  the  other  way. 
I  could  see  that  people  looked  askance  at  me  for  not 
following  in  her  footsteps  and  the  unreasonableness 
of  it  all  sent  me  adrift. 

"As  I  grew  older  and  saw  deeper  into  life  many 
things  stirred  me  to  a  feeling  of  contempt  for  the 
smug-conventionally  religious,  those  who  are  in  the 
church  for  the  respectability  they  get  out  of  it.  Long 
ago  I  made  up  my  mind  that  money  and  good  social 
position  would  hide  one's  sins  in  the  eyes  of  ambitious 
mothers  if  they  found  the  sinner  looking  with  favor 
on  their  marriageable  daughters.  .  .  .  But  at  last  I 
met  a  girl  of  rare  beauty — a  fair,  untarnished  soul, 
absolutely  without  the  ambitions  that  I  had  watched 
with  scorn  in  other  women.  She  was  poor  and  be- 
longed to  obscurity,  but  as  she  found  me  drawn  toward 
her  she  receded.  .  .  .  After  all  my  heart  was  hers,  the 
very  best  that's  in  me  roused  to  meet  the  good  that 
reigns  throughout  her  being,  I  found  that  she,  too, 
cared — in  some  degree,  not  with  the  abandon  that  some 
women  might  have  in  loving — but  she  agreed  to  marry 
me.  .  .  .  There  have  been  times  that  I  could  almost 
believe  in  your  God,  in  her  God,  since  she  gave  me 
her  promise.  .  .  .  Now,"  Ledroux  stopped  in  front  of 
the  older  man,  "how  do  you  suppose  I  feel?  Just 
when  there's  a  chance  of  real  life  for  me — with  love 

161 


In   the   iaantaf)ala0 


and  trust  and  purity  joined  to  my  broken  life,  bracing 
me  for  better  things,  leading  me  to  a  knowledge  of 
the  highest, — just  when  this  happens,  the  old  malevo- 
lence gets  in  its  work.  If  I  marry  her  it  is  only  to 
bring  misery  upon  her,  to  add  constantly  to  my  own 
unhappiness.     What  is  there  left  for  me?" 

"Always  there's  the  hope  of  a  larger  life,  Telfair." 

"Conditioned  on  what  ?  That  I  believe  things  which 
my  mind  cannot  grasp?  I  cannot  go  over  the  old 
ground  again.  I  am  too  tired  to  thresh  out  the  old 
straw.  It  has  yielded  chafif  always,  why  should  I  look 
for  grain   now?" 

"It's  a  thing  difficult  to  argue  about,  my  boy,  but 
you  must  see  it — this  great  truth  that  we  are  intended 
for  something  more  than  a  short  existence  here, 
trammelled  by  the  body  and  its  imperious  demands." 

"Then  if  I  accept  a  belief  in  a  Creator  who  is  all- 
wise,  all-loving,  I  shall  claim  that  no  child  of  his  crea- 
tion is  'lost,'  to  use  your  phrase.  It  would  be  malevo- 
lence indeed  that  would  condemn  a  man  to  endless 
suflfering  for  the  quality  of  his  brain.  Oh !  it's  all 
dark  to  me,"  and  Ledroux  passed  his  hand  across  his 
forehead.  "The  sadness  of  life  outweighs  its  pleasure 
— always.  Surely  the  Father  you  tell  me  of  would  do 
somewhat  in  another  life  to  make  up  for  the  sorrow 
of  this.  I  cannot  believe  as  you  do,  as  Linda  does.  If 
I  accept  the  idea  of  God,  of  Heaven,  then  I  will  hold 
to  the  faith  that  every  child  of  His,  faulty,  frail, 
however  he  may  be,  will  somewhere  find  peace  and 
pardon.  Now  I  must  go.  You  look  tired.  I  beg  your 
pardon  for  having  kept  you  so  long.  Good  night," 
and  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"Good  night,  and God  bless  you.    Come  to  me 


soon." 


The  old  man  walked  to  the  door  and  watched  Le- 

162 


In  tlje  iaanta!ja!a0 


droux  go  out  into  the  night,  then  turned  and  going 
back  sat  long  in  his  lonehness,  his  heart  aching  for 
the  sorrows  of  the  world. 

The  house  was  quiet  when  Ledroux  let  himself  in. 
He  had  given  orders  that  no  one  should  stay  up  for 
him.  He  went  directly  to  his  bedroom  and  sat  down 
at  a  desk  that  he  sometimes  used.  It  had  been  his 
mother's,  and  for  a  number  of  years  after  her  death 
he  did  not  allow  it  in  his  room,  but  since  his  en- 
gagement he  had  moved  it  in  himself  and  invariably 
used  it  when  writing  to  Linda. 

He  wrote  rapidly  for  a  few  minutes  on  legal  cap, 
folded  the  paper  and  pigeonholed  it,  then  drew  a  sheet 
of  note  paper  toward  him  and  began  writing  slowly. 
A  few  lines  and  he  tried  another  sheet  as  if  dissatis- 
fied, another  and  still  another.  Finally  he  laid  his 
pen  down,  got  up  and  paced  the  floor  with  firm  steps, 
and  again  seating  himself  wrote  a  few  lines,  then 
folded  the  paper,  enclosed  it  in  an  envelope,  sealed 
and  addressed  it.  Going  quietly  out  of  the  house 
he  dropped  the  letter  in  the  nearest  box  and  again 
sought  his  room.  After  undressing  he  went  to  a 
little  cupboard  set  deep  in  the  wall,  took  out  a  small 
bottle  and  poured  a  draught.  His  hand  shook  as 
he  held  the  glass  up.  "How  easy  to  end  it  all,"  he 
thought.     "If  one  but  dared. 

"The  ages  have  honored  Socrates  for  his  fortitude 
when  drinking  the  hemlock — why  execrate  the  man  of 
to-day  who  rids  himself  of  a  graceless  gift?" 

He  walked  to  the  table  on  which  lay  a  few  books, 
picked  up  his  mother's  Bible  and  slowly  turned  the 
leaves,  catching  the  words  here  and  there :  "I  have 
fought  a  good  fight,  I  have  finished  my  course,  I 
have  kept  the  faith."     "What  a  man  he  was — Paul ! 

163 


an   tU  il5anta!)ala$ 


A  fighter  to  the  core,  and  such  a  brain !  A  few 
more  like  him  and  the  world  would  be  taken  for 
Christ. 

"What  if  it's  all  true — this  mystical  story  that  has 
influenced  the  world  so  wonderfully?  The  immaculate 
conception,  the  resurrection  of  the  body,  and  the 
rest?" 

He  shivered  slightly  and  turned  again  to  the  Book: 
"  'There  is  thenceforth  laid  up  for  me  a  crown  of 
righteousness  .  .  .  and  not  to  me  only  but  unto 
all  them  also  that  love  his  appearing.'  'Love  His  ap- 
pearing',  Ah !"    and   he    closed   the    Book,   turned 

away  and  went  toward  the  bed,  a  weakness  possessing 
him,  the  sense  of  weight  overpowering  him.  "Let  me 
sleep — sleep,"  he  murmured  brokenly,  as  he  threw 
himself  across  the  bed. 


164 


CHAPTER  XX. 
"as  in  a  dream  when  one  awaketh." 

Before  Fannie's  visit  was  ended  there  came  a  letter 
from  Mrs.  De  Jarnette  urging  Linda  to  come  to  her 
at  Eagle's  Nest,  for  a  few  days  at  any  rate. 

"The  very  thing,"  declared  Fannie.  "I  will  go 
with  you  and  stop  a  bit  in  the  Nest.  My  time  will 
soon  be  up.  I'm  sure  the  Pater  is  suffering  for  the 
sight  of  me,  but  I'll  stay  two  days  anyway.  Do 
about,  beloved,  and  freshen  up  your  wardrobe  and 
let's  get  ready.  I  don't  want  to  leave  this  blessed 
spot,  but  when  would  I  wish  to  do  so?  Everybody 
has  been  so  good  to  me,  and  I  weep  at  the  thought  of 
going  away.  'All  the  night  make  I  my  bed  to  swim.' 
But  never  you  mind,  Elizabeth  Wells,  I  am  going 
to  have  you  in  my  home  yet  as  a  star  guest,  and 
Aunt  Sarah,  the  girls,  Jack  and  all — oh !  I  shall  never 
give  them  up,  bless  'em !" 

The  whole  family  showed  their  regret  at  losing 
Fannie.  Without  any  parade  of  words  they  made 
her  feel  that  she  had  won  a  sure  place  in  their 
hearts.  The  day  before  her  departure  the  younger 
members  of  the  Williams  family  came  over  and  spent 
the  night,  while  Harry  took  tea  and  stayed  till  a  late 
hour  the  same  evening. 

That  night,  long  after  Elise  was  asleep.  Fannie 
stood  in  front  of  the  mirror  and  mentally  took  her- 
self to  task:  "Fannie  Montague  Everett,  I  have  long 

165 


In  tf)e  jaamabalag 


thought  you  are  feeble  of  mind,  and  now  I  know  it. 
Consider  yourself !  a  would-be  philosopher,  taking  the 
good  things  offered  you  and  proposing  to  do  no 
whining  after  the  unattainable.  Some  spirit  you  have, 
what  might  well  be  called  a  fair  share  of  real  grit. 
Do  you  recall  the  fact  that  you  extracted  your  own 
teeth  in  your  childhood,  even  going  so  far  as  to  tie 
one  tooth  to  a  doorknob,  then  giving  a  wild  leap? 
Remember  ?  It  gave  you  the  shivers  to  go  through  the 
preparation,  but  you  were  plucky  enough  to  keep  on. 
And  nozv! — Now! — Do  you  hear?  /  say  Now!  See 
how  you  are  behaving!  Of  course  you  told  him  she 
does  not  love  that  Ledroux  man.  Deep  down  in  your 
heart  you've  been  knowing  for  some  time  that  you 
would  tell  him,  but  what  a  coward  you  were  in  doing 
it!  Putting  it  off  just  as  long  as  ever  you  could, 
then  half-way  praying  that  it  wouldn't  rouse  the  old 
love  in  his  heart.  It  ought  to  make  you  sick  to  think 
of  it!  You  see  that  survigorous  fist?"  A  small  hand 
was  firmly  doubled  up  and  held  out  for  inspection. 
"You  are  a  child,  a  rampageous  child.  If  you  were 
only  a  boy  child,  this  is  what  you'd  need — well  laid 
on  by  another  boy. 

"As  it  is,  you  must  be  taught  some  sense,  some- 
how. If  he  still  loves  her  you  don't  want  what's  left. 
Think  of  it !  You  trying  to  fill  a  heart  that  Linda 
had  once  fitted  into.  Besides,  you  have  no  earthly 
reason  for  believing  he  could  ever  care  for  you,  chit 
that  you  are. 

"Why  should  you  keep  thinking  of  him?  Of  his 
manliness,  his  goodness,  the  power  that's  in  him?  You 
simply  know  that  Linda  does  not  love  Telfair  Le- 
droux, and  you  believe  that  she  will  find  it  out  in 
time  and  her  heart  will  naturally  turn  to  the  man  who 
is  a  man.     What  then?     Ought  vou  not  to  be  happy 

166 


Hn   tbe   Il^iinta})ala0 


over  the  thought  that  the  two  people  whom  you  hold 
so  dear  might  at  last  find  happiness? 

"And  what  of  you,  Fannie  Everett  ?    Goosey-goose  ! 

Fancying  yourself  in oh  no,  no.     You  honor 

him  but  you  have  too  strong  a  will  to  allow  any 

foolishness  on  your  part.  Crowd  it  out,  that  weak- 
ness.    Stamp  on  it.     Leave  no  sign  behind. 

"Didn't  you  try  to  make  Harry  see  the  lighter 
side  of  these  things  last  winter  when  he  was  in  deep 
waters? 

"You  foolishly  quoted :  'Men  have  died  and  worms 
have  eaten  them,  but  not  for  love,'  then  begged  his 
pardon   for   your   own    folly. 

"Now  fit  that  to  yourself — pretended  wiseacre,  and 
end  this  tomfoolery."  Whereupon  she  went  to  bed 
and  quietly  cried  herself  to  sleep. 

The  next  day  there  were  no  traces  of  the  night's 
struggle  in  the  girl's  face  or  manner.  As  usual  she 
was  the  life  of  the  party.  She  refused  to  allow  a 
sad  word  from  anybody.  Her  good-by  was  bright, 
with  the  promise  that  she  would  return  next  summer. 

The  girls  found  Mrs.  De  Jarnette  without  her 
companion. 

"I  gave  her  leave  to  visit  her  family  and  friends 
while  I  am  away.  Indeed  I  am  very  well  and  do  not 
need  her  in  the  least — just  now.  The  truth  of  the 
matter  is,  Linda,  I  wanted  you  awhile  all  to  myself. 

"You  have  spoiled  me  entirely.  After  having  you 
in  my  home,  almost  any  other  girl  would  seem  com- 
monplace." 

After  Fannie  had  gone  away  Linda  gave  herself 
up  to  Mrs.  De  Jarnette,  reading  to  her,  talking  with 
her,  showing  her  the  countless  little  attentions  that 
youth  should  pay  to  mature  age. 

During  these  days  the  two  were  drawn  closer  to- 

167 


in   ti}t  j^antaf)alas; 


gether  than  ever  before.  Always  a  lovable  woman 
Mrs.  De  Jarnette  seemed  to  Linda  to  have  added  a 
finer  grace  to  her  character.  The  conventions  of  the 
world  had  Hmited  her  range  of  thought  as  well  as 
controlled  her  actions.  Somehow  she  was  outgrow- 
ing these  limitations.  It  was  as  if  the  spirit  found 
itself  struggling,  chrysalis-Hke,  to  get  into  a  freer 
world,  one  of  purer  air  and  wider  sweep  of  vision. 
Her  manner  toward  the  young  girl  was  tenderer, 
more  motherly  than  its  wont.  Linda  felt  the  differ- 
ence and  her  heart  went  out  in  gratitude  to  her. 

One  evening  when  the  two  were  alone  in  Mrs.  De 
Jarnette's  room  and  all  their  part  of  the  house  quiet, 
the  older  lady  asked  Linda  to  put  down  her  book. 

"There  is  something  I  must  say  to  you,  Linda.  It 
isn't  worth  while  to  postpone  it  longer." 

The  girl  read  distress  in  every  look  and  tone. 
"What  is  it,  Mrs.  De  Jarnette?  You  need  not  hesi- 
tate to  talk  freely  to  me.     Please  go  on." 

"I  have  a  confession,  an  apology  to  make,  and  it's 
hard  to  put  it  into  words."  There  was  a  long  pause. 
Linda  left  her  seat  under  the  light,  and,  drawing  a 
chair  near  Mrs.  De  Jarnette,  she  sat  down  and  gently 
stroked  her  hair,  murmuring  softly  to  her  as  one 
might  to  a  frightened  child. 

"Oh !  it's  this — all  your  goodness  to  me,  your  cheer- 
ful service,  your  sweetness,  that  forces  me  to  tell  you 
....  If  I  hurt  you,  forgive  me.  It  may  be  better 
to  have  the  heartache  now  instead  of  suffering  for 
long  years."  Then,  with  such  a  look  as  one  might 
have  who  had  made  up  his  mind  to  plunge  into  deep 
waters  with  no  hope  of  salvation,  she  went  on: 
"When  Telfair  began  to  show  such  marked  preference 
for  you,  here  last  summer,  I  was  disturbed,  troubled. 
At  first  it  seemed  to  me  unreasonable  that  he  intended 

168 


M  tU  jeantaf)ala0 


more  than  simply  to  amuse  himself  for  the  time.  Yet 
that  was  not  like  him.  With  all  his  faults  he  has 
shown  no  tendency  to  flirt.  Still  I  supposed  that  he 
would  be  too  ambitious,  or  worldly,  to  marry  a  woman 
who  did  not  have  money  or  high  social  position.  Any- 
way I  was  on  guard.  He  should  not  trifle  with  you — 
with  a  young  girl  who  was  under  my  care.  That  is  the 
way  the  matter  stood  in  my  mind  for  awhile.  Even 
after  he  sought  you  out  so  pointedly  in  Savannah  I 
believed  he  did  not  mean  to  make  a  misalliance.  But 
as  I  lived  longer  with  you  and  found  you  to  be  gold, 
my  dear  girl,  I  began  to  be  ashamed  that  I  was  al- 
lowing an  intimacy  that  might  be  your  ruin,  might 
bring  you  nothing  but  unhappiness.  I  watched  you 
closely  last  fall,  Linda,  and  at  no  time  could  I  say 
that  you  showed  love  for  Telfair.  So  I  temporized, 
letting  things  drift,  believing  that  you  have  so  much 
strength  of  character  you  were  able  to  take  care  of 
yourself.  Then  when  you  came  back  after  Christ- 
mas and  told  me  that  you  were  engaged  I  knew 
that  I  had  done  wrong,  that  you  should  not  have  been 
allowed  to  go  so  far  without  knowing — the  whole 
truth." 

Linda  sat  motionless,  her  face  white,  her  eyes, 
wide  and  bright,  looking  into  Mrs.  De  Jarnette's. 

"Shall  I  go  on?  It's  hard  to  tell  an  innocent  girl 
these  things." 

"Go   on." 

"Telfair  Ledroux  has  been  what  the  French  call 
a  roue.  Perhaps  that  is  not  the  word,  for  he  was 
more  restrained  than  some  men,  but  he  seemed  ab- 
solutely open, — shameless,  his  enemies  might  say. 
There  was  one  woman  for  a  long  time.  .  .  .  She  died 
and  he  took  her  child  into  his  home.  That  caused  a 
break  with  his  sister  and  many  of  his  old  friends,  .  .  . 

169 


In   tbt  ii5anta!)ala0 


It  was  a  dreadful  time.  He  never  talked  to  me  about 
it,  but  his  sister  did.  She  blamed  him  for  having  the 
boy  in  the  old  home,  bringing  shame  upon  the  mem- 
ory of  her  mother,  and  he  talked  of  the  hypocritical 
conventions  by  which  her  social  world  was  ruled,  of 
how  little  consequence  wrongdoing  was  if  it  was  de- 
cently hidden.  He  kept  the  child  in  his  home  for 
three  or  four  years,  then  sent  him  away  to  school. 
The  boy  was  never  in  Savannah  again,  I  think. 
Knowing  Telfair  as  I  do,  I  felt  sure  that  it  was  done 
for  the  child's  sake.  The  boy  had  grown  old  enough 
to  understand  something  of  the  situation,  and,  per- 
haps, was  sensitive  about  it.  Gradually  people  talked 
less,  and  for  the  past  few  years  the  man  has  had  all 
the  attention  one  could  ask.  There  are  few  mothers 
in  Savannah  who  would  hesitate  if  Telfair  Ledroux 
wished  to  marry  one  of  their  daughters.  But  I  have 
felt  that  you  are  different.  And  I  did  not  believe  that 
he  has  led  a  pure  life,  even  of  late.  Oh,  of  course 
he  has  done  so  since  your  engagement.  And  if  you 
can  forgive  him  .  .  .  and  trust  him,  you  may  be 
happy  together  yet." 

Mrs.  De  Jarnette  looked  at  Linda.  The  still,  white 
face  was  inscrutable.     There  was  a  painful  pause, 

"Forgive  me,  Linda,  if  I  have  hurt  you.  I  have 
only  meant  to  do  right  by  you,  child." 

"I  know,  I  know.  Let  me  go  to  my  room  now." 
The  girl  bent  over  and  kissed  her  friend  tenderly. 

The  next  morning  before  Mrs.  De  Jarnette  was  out 
of  her  room  Linda  came  in  with  her  usual  look  and 
manner.  The  older  lady  was  deeply  anxious,  yet 
hesitated  to  question  the  girl  in  any  way.  She  would 
wait  and  let  Linda  confide  in  her.    Advice  was  super- 

170 


Kn   tfte  iaantai)ala0 


fluou3.      Openly   expressed    sympathy   might   be   un- 
welcome. 

After  the  usual  casual  talk  there  was  constraint. 
Mrs.  De  Jarnette  felt  it  and  hastened  to  make  talk, 
keeping  away  from  the  one  great  subject.  She  wished 
Linda  would  be  a  bit  more  impulsive,  more  like  other 
girls.  She  might  tell  her  plans  at  any  rate.  Most 
girls  would  have  been  in  tears  or  hysterics — but  here 
— Oh  !  dear,  dear ! — such  quiet,  such  absolute  mastery 
of  one's  emotions.  Was  Linda  cold,  feelingless  after 
all?  Or  did.  .  .  .  ?  The  undercurrent  that  was  surg- 
ing beneath  the  flow  of  small  talk  came  to  a  sudden 
stop.  Linda  was  saying — only  saying  that  someone 
was  knocking.  "Shall  I  go  to  the  door?" 

"Thank  you,  yes.  A  'phone  message  for  me  ?  Tell 
them  I'll  be  down  there  immediately,  Linda.  A  mes- 
sage from  Waynesville?  I  can't  imagine  from  whom. 
Will  you  go  down  with  me,  dear,  or  do  you  prefer 
waiting  here?  It  is  almost  breakfast  time,  anyway, 
isn't  it?  You  will  wait  till  the  bell  rings?  Very 
well ;  I'll  hurry  on  to  answer  that  call." 

After  Mrs.  De  Jarnette  had  gone  Linda  threw  open 
a  window  and  stood  by  it  looking  down  upon  the 
valley.  The  fog  had  not  yet  scattered  and  the  moun- 
tains seemed  to  be  Hfting  their  heads  from  opalescent 
seas.  Ofif  to  the  right  Piatt's  Balsam  stood  with  the 
mists  bathing  his  side  while  the  first  victorious  rays 
of  the  sun  crowned  his  crest. 

Nature's  appeal  was  never  in  vain  for  the  girl.  The 
loneliness  of  the  hills,  the  calm  beauty  of  them,  had 
gone  into  her  soul  and  become  a  part  of  it.  No  alien 
looking  upon  the  scene  could  realize  the  mighty  love, 
the  deep  yearning,  that  filled  the  heart  of  the  girl. 
Through  long  hours  of  the  night  she  had  wrestled  with 

171 


In  tfte  jaamaijalas 


herself  and  had  sent  her  spirit  out  on  its  earnest  quest 
for  God,  if  so  He  might  be  found,  might  speak  to  her 
in  those  high  words  that  point  the  path  of  Duty. 

She  had  turned  in  sickening  loathing  from  Le- 
droux's  past.  Surely  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  face 
a  future  in  which,  day  after  day,  every  hour,  every 
moment,  the  ghost  of  that  past  should  stand  beside 
her.  This  morning  as  she  looked  out  on  these  beloved 
hills  the  restless  soul  became  calm.  The  fret  of  every- 
day life  seemed  a  slight  thing  in  the  face  of  these 
sentinels  of  God,  keeping  watch  on  the  peoples  below, 
and  bearing  watness  to  the  Infinite  and  Eternal 
Presence. 

She  was  scarcely  conscious  of  the  passing  time  and 
failed  to  notice  the  fact  that  the  guests  were  going 
down  to  breakfast.  At  last  the  door  opened  and  Mrs. 
De  Jarnette  walked  slowly  across  the  room.  Linda 
turned. 

"What  is  it?  O!  Mrs.  De  Jarnette,  what  is  it?" 
The  girl  was  frightened  out  of  her  usual  composure. 
She  threw  her  arms  around  her  friend  and  drew  her 
to  a  chair,  then  knelt  beside  her,  murmuring  soft 
words  of  love,  kissing  the  trembling  hands,  stroking 
cheek  and  hair — in  tenderest  ways,  showing  sym- 
pathy. 

"Can't  you  tell  me  now.  dear  Mrs.  De  Jarnette?  Let 
me  help  you  bear  it — whatever  it  is,  my  dear,  dear 
friend." 

"I  can't  tell  you— I  can't,  I  can't,"  the  stricken 
look  on  the  face,  the  appealing  agony  of  the  eyes 
touched  Linda  more  than  words. 

"Yes,  you  can,  dear  heart.  Remember  how  I  love 
you.  Anything  that  troubles  you — oh !  it  will  help  you 
to  share  your  trouble  with  me." 

172 


Un   tbt  iaamaf)ala0 


"Telfair  Ledroux  is  ...  .  he — died — last — night. 
They  found  him  this  morning" dead." 

The  message  had  been  telegraphed  to  Waynesville 
and  from  there  'phoned  up  to  Eagle's  Nest.  The  serv- 
ants in  the  Ledroux  home  had  spoken  of  IMrs.  De 
Jarnette  as  being  the  most  intimate  friend  of  the  un- 
fortunate man.  Hers  was  the  only  house  in  which  he 
made  himself  at  home.  A  telegram  had  been  sent 
to  his  sister  notifying  her  of  his  death.  Both  mes- 
sages simply  stated  the  facts  without  details. 

Mrs.  De  Jarnette  did  not  oppose  Linda  when  the 
latter  quietly  announced  her  intention  of  accompany- 
ing her  friend  to  Savannah.  There  need  be  no  pub- 
licity about  the  matter.  The  young  girl  would  be 
known  as  a  former  companion  who  was  showing 
friendship  for  the  older  lady  in  a  trying  hour. 

Through  the  long  day  Linda  was  full  of  thought  for 
Mrs.  De  Jarnette — not  once  forgetful  of  any  little 
comfort,  apparently  setting  herself  aside  in  her  effort 
to  care  for  the  frail  woman  who  was  inwardly  blam- 
ing herself  for  the  revelations  that  must  add  to  the 
girl's  unhappiness. 

It  was  well  into  the  night  when  they  neared  Sa- 
vannah, At  one  of  the  stations  not  far  from  the  city 
a  gentleman  carne  in  and  apparently  recognizing  an 
acquaintance  not  far  from  Linda,  seated  himself  and 
began  a  conversation. 

After  a  while  the  girl's  attention  was  attracted  by 
the  name  which  was  uppermost  in  her  thought. 

"You  haven't  seen  the  account?  An  afternoon  paper 
suggests  suicide.  The  morning  papers  announcing  his 
death  drew  out  the  fact  that  the  last  person  who  saw 
him  alive  is  a  retired  physician — an  old  friend  of 
the  family — to  whom  Ledroux  had  gone  for  advice 

12  173 


Kn   the  jeanta!)alas 


after  having  an  examination  by  Dr.  Earlham.  Both 
men  gave  him  only  a  few  months  to  hve.  It  seems 
there  was  a  complication  of  diseases,  and  the  reporter's 
theory  is  that  he  chose  death — instantaneous — to  the 
torture  of  a  slow  one.  There  was  a  glass  showing 
that  he  had  taken  medicine.  A  fresh  bottle  of  some 
sleep-inducing  drug  was  found  partially  emptied." 

"I  believe  Ledroux  would  have  no  scruples  about 
suicide.  You  know  he  had  his  own  views  of  right 
and  wrong — and  they  were  not  such  as  to  teach  him 
reverence  for  life.     He  counted  God  out  altogether." 

"Yes,   I  know.     What  becomes  of  his  property?" 

"That's  another  proof,  the  reporter  claims,  of  sui- 
cidal intent — the  fact  that  he  had  written  a  will  leav- 
ing a  certain  boy — you  understand — well  provided 
for ;  the  home  and  belongings  go  to  his  sister,  while 
the  rest  of  his  estate  is  left  to  the  support  of  an  in- 
stitution for  homeless   children." 

Linda  listened  with  a  half  conscious  feeling  that  she 
ought  not  to  hear  these  things,  yet  hardly  knowing 
how  to  avoid  it. 

She  sat  perfectly  calm.  Throughout  the  day  she 
had  so  often  felt  as  if  the  real  Linda  were  back  in 
the  quiet  of  her  mountain  home,  treading  its  peaceful 
ways,  while  the  girl  who  was  going  through  these  spec- 
tacular scenes  was  only  the  shadow  of  herself — a  crea- 
ture of  fantasy. 

"Linda,"  Mrs.  De  Jarnette  called  softly.  The  girl 
bent  over  the  seat  in  front  of  her,  "What  is  it  ?  Are 
you  comfortable?  Can  I  do  anything  for  you?"  She 
adjusted  the  pillow  and  stood  looking  down  on  the 
troubled  face. 

"Bend  low,  my  dear.  Did  you  hear?  I  caught  the 
last  words.     Did  they  speak  of  Telfair?" 

"Yes.'' 

174 


M   tbt  Il3anta|)ala)8! 


"But  they  never  mentioned  your  name?" 
Ao. 

"That,  at  least,  is  a  thing  to  be  thankful  for — 
that  you  were  not  dragged  into  publicity." 

Linda  made  no  answer.  She  waited  for  a  moment 
for  further  speech  from  Mrs.  De  Jarnette,  then  sat 
down  with  the  same  outward  calm.  Inwardly  she  won- 
dered dully  why  one  should  think  of  the  world's  puny 
laws  in  the  face  of  the  fact  that  a  Soul  had  gone  forth, 
naked,  to  face  its  Maker. 

It  was  worth  something  to  Ledroux's  few  friends  to 
have  the  drug  clerk  come  forward  and  discredit  the 
theory  of  suicide.  The  medicine  was  a  mixture  usually 
having  chloral  in  it,  but  the  clerk  had  noticed  how  fre- 
quently the  prescription  was  being  filled,  and  had  pur- 
posely decreased  the  dangerous  element  in  the  last 
bottles. 

They  took  his  body  from  the  old  home  to  its  last 
resting  place  beside  his  mother's  grave.  A  few  friends 
followed  the  bier  and  quietly  laid  him  away. 

Soon  afterward  his  last  letter  was  forwarded  to 
Linda  from  her  mountain  home.  She  began  reading 
it  in  the  numb,  feelingless  way  that  characterized 
every  act  during  those  days. 

There  were  only  a  few  lines,  but  every  word  was 
freighted  with  meaning.  He  told  her  of  the  doctor's 
verdict  and  offered  her  freedom.  He  w^ould  not  sad- 
den her  youth  with  the  care  of  a  dying  man.  The  end 
might  come  at  any  moment,  they  had  said.  .  .  . 
There  was  money  he  would  have  been  glad  to  leave 
for  her  to  use  in  noble  ways,  but  she  would  prefer 
it  otherwise,  and  to  spare  her  from  the  world's  curious 
eye  he  had  put  much  of  his  money  where  it  might  do 
the  good  she  would  have  him  do.     "You  are  young. 

175 


3n   tht   iaantai)alas 


Time  will  heal  your  wounds,  but  you  will  not  forget 
me?     Still,  I  want  you  to  be  happy. 

"Good  night,  good  night." 

Before  she  had  finished  reading  the  letter  tears  had 
come  to  relieve  Linda's  overburdened  heart.  Ah !  if 
only  she  could  grieve  for  him  as  for  one  whom  she 
had  loved  with  supreme  affection. 


176 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

CONCLUDING. 

The  months  passed,  bringing-  mental  and  spiritual 
health  to  Linda.  She  had  sta^'ed  a  few  weeks  with 
Mrs.  De  Jarnette,  then  had  gone  back  to  her  grand- 
father and  taken  up  the  life  of  loving  service  for  the 
two  lonely  men.  As  she  learned  to  lose  herself  in 
work  for  them  she  began  to  look  back  and  see  that 
she  had  been  essentially  selfish.  While  outwardly  liv- 
ing for  others  she  had  chafed  and  brooded.  The  daily 
round  had  not  been  one  glad  outflowing  of  love  which 
would  show  itself  in  simplest  Vv-ays  as  in  the  greatest. 

She  was  outgrowing  the  intense  egotism  of  youth 
which  turns  the  eye  inward  with  morbid  watchfulness. 

During  this  time  the  quiet  sympathy  of  her  friends 
was  very  precious  to  her.  Miss  Wells  and  Mrs.  De 
Jarnette  wrote  often.  Fannie  was  never  too  busy  to 
send  long,  bright  letters  full  of  her  old,  sweet  "fool- 
ery," as  she  termed  it.  Her  first  letter  enclosed  an 
affectionate  note  from  her  mother  reminding  Linda 
that  the  family  claimed  a  visit  from  her  at  the  very 
first  opportunity,  and  assuring  her  that  all  of  them 
held  her  in  dearest  love,  and  that  any  sorrow  of  hers 
was  inevitably  theirs. 

Later  came  a  short  letter  from  Dr.  Montague. 

Fannie,  he  wrote,  had  kept  him  informed  as  to  her 
friend.  A  matter  of  such  vital  interest  as  Mr.  Le- 
droux's  death  could  not  fail  to  touch  her  old  friends 
and  enlist  their  sympathy. 

177 


Hn   tbt  Bantalialas! 


Harry  wrote  from  the  University,  straightforward, 
manly  letters,  full  of  consideration  for  her  and  always 
giving  news  of  his  school  life.  By  crowding  during 
the  first  two  years  he  would  finish  college  in  another 
year.  In  the  Junior  class  at  present,  and  making  up 
certain  studies,  he  was  healthfully  busy.  That  eager 
thirst  for  knowledge,  which  is  natural  to  the  unde- 
veloped mind,  was  spurring  him  on  and  leaving  him  no 
time  to  brood  over  the  past.  From  that  past  rose  the 
thought  of  Linda  as  something,  not  to  sadden  a  man 
but  to  hearten  him  for  the  battle  of  life.  "She  has 
given  me  my  manhood.  I  shall  not  forget  that ;  God 
bless  her." 

His  letters,  breathing  this  spirit,  became  a  source  of 
pleasure  to  Linda.  There  was  no  surer  proof  that 
the  girl  had  never  loved  him  than  this  fact, — she  was 
happier  when  his  letters  gave  no  sign  that  the  old 
feeling  was  still  alive  in  his  heart. 

In  the  early  fall  she  took  up  her  music  again,  in- 
tending to  cultivate  her  voice  enough  to  use  it  in  the 
home,  where  it  might  be  a  source  of  enjoyment — for 
her  uncle,  especially,  who  loved  music  with  that  ab- 
sorption which  the  physically  strong  cannot  under- 
stand. 

Aided  by  her  uncle  she  began  a  course  in  English 
literature  and  found  a  double  pleasure  therein  because 
it  proved  to  be  an  outlet  for  the  invalid's  pent-up 
forces.  The  two  went  back  over  the  ways  long  ago 
traveled  by  the  man,  and  the  days  were  brightened 
for  both  as  they  lingered  over  the  fields  of  the  past, 
or  paused  for  pleasant  excursions  into  the  present. 

As  time  thus  filled,  passed  fleetly  away,  Linda  found 
herself  turning  from  the  shadows.  Youth  and  sound 
health  are  wonderfully  elastic,  and  the  soul  that  has 

178 


In  tfte  jeantaf)ala0 


fixed  its  faith  on  God  cannot  always  grope  in  darkness. 

One  day  when  she  was  reading  a  story  of  mountain 
life  to  her  uncle  she  laid  the  magazine  down  and  spoke 
freely  of  what  was  in  her  heart.  She  blamed  herself 
for  having  been  blind  to  the  good  that  was  in  her 
people.  She  had  chafed  against  the  narrowness  of 
her  life  before  she  left  the  mountains,  and  had,  un- 
consciously, lost  sight  of  the  sterling  qualities  of  her 
countrymen,  their  truth  and  honesty,  their  sturdy  inde- 
pendence, their  splendid  reserve  power.  Now  that 
she  had  seen  something  of  the  outer  world  she  realized 
the  good  of  her  fellow  mountaineers  and  wished  that 
she  might  do  something  for  them, 

"Not  simply  for  my  aunt's  family — we  are  doing 
all  that's  necessary  for  them — but  for  the  whole  com- 
munity. Naked  charity  isn't  at  all  what  is  needed. 
That  sort  of  thing  destroys  our  best  qualities,  the 
independence  and  self-reliance  that  belong  to  moun- 
tain people.  One  girl  can't  do  much  except  for  the 
individual,  something  like  the  work  Miss  Wells  is 
doing ;  but  I  can't  get  it  out  of  my  mind.  Perhaps 
grandfather  would  be  interested  and  might  help  estab- 
lish a  little  school." 

"Have  you  thought  of  just  what  you  do  want? 
Not  a  straight-out  mission  school,  I  take  it?" 

"Not  at  all." 

"Think  about  it,  Linda,  and  let  me  know.  I've  done 
so  little  in  the  world,  it  would  give  me  great  pleasure 
to  be  the  means  of  helping  others  to  a  better  life.  I 
have  been  giving  money  to  dififerent  enterprises,  but 
there  has  been  nothing  that  I  could  feel  was  my  very 
own.  If  I  could  know  that  money  of  mine  had  made 
a  man  of  one  neglected  boy  I  could  bear  this  inactivity 
better." 

179 


Ktt   tfte  ii5anta!)alas 


Linda  was  looking  at  him  with  happy  shining  eyes. 
"Oh !  Uncle,  do  you  really  mean  it  ?  We  can  do  some- 
thing.    See  if  we  don't!" 

She  immediately  began  a  correspondence  with  Miss 
Wells  and  different  ones  who  might  be  of  help  to  her 
in  formulating  a  plan.  Her  grandfather  encouraged 
her  by  the  promise  of  assistance  when  needed,  but 
suggested  that  the  beginning  should  be  altogether  with 
his  son's  money.  She  wrote  to  Valle  Crucis,  North 
Carolina,  in  regard  to  their  methods,  consulted  an 
architect  and  soon  had  her  mind  clear  as  to  what  she 
would  undertake.  She  wrote  to  Mr.  Gentry  offering 
a  good  price  for  several  acres  of  his  farm,  and  also 
authorized  him  to  buy,  for  her,  one-half  of  Coon 
Bletcher's  land  at  a  price  which,  to  the  two  men, 
seemed  wildly  extravagant.  In  answer  to  Coon's  pro- 
test against  her  paying  such  a  sum  for  his  "onery  little 
place"  Linda  explained  her  intentions.  On  the  acres 
bought  from  her  uncle  she  proposed  erecting  two  cot- 
tages and  having  them  ready  for  use  by  summer.  She 
knew  that  Coon's  little  farm  was  noted  for  its  apple 
orchard.  She  wished  to  buy  the  half  of  this  orchard 
for  experimental  purposes,  hoping  that  the  young  man 
would  become  interested  and  would  follow  the  methods 
she  expected  to  introduce,  thus  increasing  the  value  of 
his  own  property,  and,  at  the  same  time,  aiding  her  in 
the  work  she  was  planning.  She  hoped  to  have  a  man 
on  the  ground  by  spring  to  begin  the  school  in  a  small 
way,  and  she  would  be  glad  to  have  the  cooperation 
of  her  Uncle  Bart  and  other  farmers  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. 

"You  are  hitting  the  nail  squarely  on  the  head," 
wrote  Fannie.  "You  have  found  a  prescription  that 
beats  my  old  doctor  by  a  long  shot.  I  bet  that  you 
do  something  worth  doing.    Where  are  you  to  get  a 

180 


In  tbt  i^anta{)alas! 


man  for  the  place?  If  you  need  any  female  help,  call 
on  me.  I  have  all  the  executive  ability  needed  to  man- 
age a  scholastic  establishment,  and  my  education,  you 
know,  is  classical.  I  may  not  have  the  go-to-the- 
stake  spirit  that  prompts  some  women  to  come  to 
western  Carolina  in  search  of  missionary  work,  but  I 
do  have  a  profound  faith  in  the  human  beings  who 
people  our  mountains,  and  I  would  be  glad  to  give  a 
hand  to  help  them  uplift  themselves.  Really,  we  want 
to  do  something  to  further  your  project.  The  Pater 
is  sympathetic,  and  my  uncle — bless  him ! — bids  me  say 
that  you  may  call  on  him  if  you  run  short  of  money. 

"I  think  your  plan  of  having  a  summer  school  is 
admirable.  A  music  teacher,  art  and  nature-study 
teacher  already  engaged !  Fine  !  Imagine  what  it  will 
mean  to  so  many  of  those  boys  and  girls  to  be  taught 
to  sing  and  to  know  the  secret  of  the  woods.  And 
imagine  how  proud  we  will  be  if  Jack,  for  instance, 
should  discover  the  qualities  of  a  great  artist. 

"If  you  need  me  I  will  be  there  ready  for  you 
(thank  you  for  renewing  the  invitation  to  visit  you  at 
Aunt  Sarah's  next  summer).  And  I  am  sure  you 
ought  to  profit  by  my  genius  for  cooking.  My  steaks 
are  pronounced  perfect  and  my  pastries  are  dreams. 
Have  you  decided  to  introduce  the  fine  art  of  cooking? 
You  are  to  have  farming,  fruit-growing,  hand-craft? 
Right  you  are !  Those  lovely  old-time  rag  carpets, 
those  exquisite  coverlets ! — may  the  art  of  making 
them  never  be  lost  'Till  all  the  seas  run  dry,'  my  dear, 
'Till  all  the  seas  run  dry.'  " 

In  the  midst  of  Linda's  planning  the  Christmas 
holidays  came  on.  Fannie,  who  was  now  in  her 
senior  year  at  school,  wrote  urging  her  friend  to 
spend  the  time  with  her  in  her  own  home,  but  Linda 
had  grown  considerate  of  others.    The  two  men  who 

181 


Un   tbt  Jl5anta{)ala0 


depended  on  her  for  much  of  their  pleasure  should  not 
be  left  alone  at  a  season  when  they  needed  her  most, 
but  the  week  following  Christmas  found  the  two 
friends  together  in  Brevard,  and  here,  again,  Linda 
was  the  center  of  loving  attention.  Fannie  had  never 
been  more  assuredly  the  true  friend,  tactful  and  af- 
fectionate, while  the  younger  children  were  running 
over  with  happiness  because  the  girls  were  with  them 
again. 

Dr.  Montague,  also,  was  visiting  the  home.  Mrs. 
Everett  alone  knew  the  man's  secret,  and  as  she 
watched  Linda,  marking  the  sure  ripening  of  her 
character,  she  bade  her  brother  be  patient  till  the 
fulness  of  her  young  maturity  should  bring  the  girl 
to  wiser  self-knowledge. 

Then — why  then,  what  woman  could  resist  the  com- 
pelling of  a  strong,  persistent,  masterful  love?  A 
love  in  keeping  with  the  noble  nature  of  such  a  man? 

During  her  visit  to  Fannie  Linda  found  herself 
turning  to  Dr.  IMontague  for  advice  and  suggestion  in 
the  work  she  was  projecting.  His  visits  to  the  Ever- 
ett family  had  shown  him  much  of  mountain  life  and 
character.  Armed  with  this  knowledge  he  was  able 
to  give  Linda  practical  help,  such  as  she  had  not 
found  elsewhere.  Mr.  Everett  also  took  sympathetic 
interest  in  her  plans,  restraining  here,  suggesting 
there.  From  him  she  secured  the  address  of  a  young 
man,  a  former  student  of  an  agricultural  college,  who 
was  farming  in  Transylvania  and  bringing  to  his  work 
the  practical  wisdom  of  such  new  methods  as  were 
suited  to  the  mountains.  Before  Linda's  visit  was 
ended  he  came  to  Mr.  Everett's  to  consult  with  her. 
She  made  him  an  offer  that  decided  him  to  go  im- 
mediately and  take  charge  of  the  little  experimental 

182 


3n   tU  jaantabalag 


farm  which  Linda  hoped  to  make  an  object  lesson  for 
the  surrounding  country. 

After  her  return  to  Augusta  the  girl's  time  was 
filled  with  thought  for  her  school.  Soon  she  had  the 
cottages  under  way,  using  Miss  Wells'  judgment  with 
that  of  her  teacher,  in  deciding  the  exact  location  for 
the  buildings.  She  empowered  the  teacher  to  offer 
money  to  farmers  in  the  community  for  the  purpose  of 
setting  out  and  caring  for  orchards,  the  proceeds  from 
which  were  to  be  divided  between  the  owners  of  land 
and  the  school. 

In  the  spring  she  made  a  short  trip  to  the  old 
home  and  was  delighted  to  see  the  progress  there. 
The  mountaineers  are  intensely  conservative,  and  some 
of  them  were  looking  askance  at  her  experiments. 
Others  were  watching  with  interest,  saying  little,  but 
preparing  to  profit  by  the  success  of  her  methods. 

"Shucks!"  remarked  Coon  Bletcher  to  one  of  the 
skeptical.  "She's  got  sense  and  her  grand-daddy's  got 
money,  an'  I'm  willin'  to  let  her  take  my  little  ol'  place 
an'  make  what  she  can  get  out  of  it.  Hit  ain't  ever  done 
me  no  good  but  to  git  me  into  trouble  tryin'  to  save  the 
fruit  on  it." 

Regular  literary  work  was  not  to  be  undertaken  till 
the  autumn.  In  the  meantime,  for  the  short  summer 
school,  teachers  were  secured  for  sums  that  would 
hardly  exceed  their  living  expenses.  The  art  teacher, 
practically  gave  her  services,  as  she  was  to  bring  a 
few  pupils  with  her  who  wished  to  paint  from  nature. 

Linda  had  undertaken  this  scheme  through  desire 
to  help  in  the  development  of  her  people,  but  in  it  she 
was  losing  her  old  morbid  self,  w^as  finding  a  new, 
stronger,  more  self-reliant  individuality.  In  a  large 
sense  she  was  verifying  the  truth :  "He  that  loseth  his 
life  for  my  sake  shall  find  it." 

183 


In  t6e  i^antafjalas! 


Again  the  summer  time  has  come.  The  mountains 
invite  one  with  their  beauty,  their  charm  of  flower 
and  air  and  wood. 

Linda  and  Fannie  are  together  once  more  in  the 
Gentry  home.  Here,  too,  is  Miss  Wells,  happy  in  the 
new  outlook  for  the  people  she  has  learned  to  love ; 
happy,  moreover,  because  she  sees  the  ripening  fine- 
ness of  her  favorite's  character.  Here  are  two  of  the 
teachers,  the  young  man  who  gives  the  year  to  the 
work,  and  the  lady  who  is  teaching  the  young  pupils 
some  of  the  wonders  of  the  nature-world.  In  one  of 
the  new  cottages  are  domiciled  the  art  and  music 
teachers  with  the  pupils  who  came  with  them  for  out- 
door study  and  the  change  of  air. 

There  are  only  a  few  pupils  who  are  taking  advan- 
tage of  these  opportunities,  but  Linda  is  patient,  and 
believes  the  leaven  will  do  its  work  more  thoroughly 
if  it  be  allowed  to  move  slowly.  She  feels  repaid,  as 
the  days  go  by,  to  find  that  Jack  is  developing  an 
omnivorous  appetite  for  knowledge  the  nature-teacher 
can  offer  him. 

"H  the  boy  keeps  on  I  shall  have  to  study  all  winter 
to  keep  ahead  of  him.  It's  wonderful.  He  is  a  born 
naturalist,  while  I  am  just  like  other  women  who 
take  up  such  things — in  it  because  it's  a  fad,  perhaps, 
and  because  it  helps  me  to  make  a  living." 

Linda  looked  at  the  teacher  intently.  "Three  years 
ago  I  would  have  resented  that  statement.  I  was 
so  long  fighting  what  seemed  to  me  a  silent  acknowl- 
edgment that  women  are  inferior  to  men.  Now  I 
begin  to  see  things  differently. " 

"Not  inferior,  but  different.  Miss  Linda.  I  think 
it's  just  as  important  a  fact  that  Susan  learns  to  make 
a  beautiful  loaf  as  it  is  that  Jack  has  an  overmastering 

184 


Jn   tfje   Ii5antai)ala0 


desire  to  learn  the  habits  of  every  worm  or  pollywog 
he  finds." 

"I  see  that  Miss  Andrews  has  fine  notions  about 
woman's  sphere,"  interposed  Fannie.  "In  this  day 
of  advanced  ideas  I  am  dehghted  to  hear  anything  of 
the  sort.  During  the  few  short  weeks  since  my  gradua- 
tion my  sylph-hke  form  has  almost  faded  into  noth- 
ingness because  I've  been  trying  so  hard  to  think  of 
some  mighty  thing  I  shall  undertake  to  render  my 
name  immortal.  Now  I  am  satisfied.  Cooking  is 
my  strong  point.  I  shall  hie  me  forth  to  the  kitchen 
and  broil  a  steak  to  be   converted  into  grey  matter 

for  you  intellectuals,  especially  Jack." 

*         *         * 

Harry  has  resumed  his  old  intimacy  in  the  Gentry 
home.  His  open  admiration  of  Linda  and  the  friendly 
preference  she  shows  him  may,  sometimes,  lead  others 
to  believe  the  old  footing  will  yet  be  resumed,  but  the 
two  understand  each  other,  and  Linda  is  biding  her 
time.  A  long  while  she  has  watched  Fannie  jealously, 
fearing  that  some  other  might  win  a  place  in  that 
strong  heart  into  which  she  is  hoping  that  Harry  will 
enter  and  rule.  She  speaks  of  this  to  no  one,  but  she 
sees  that  Harry  is  turning  to  the  true-hearted  girl 
as  naturally  as  the  plant  bends  toward  the  sunlight, 
and  Linda  is  quietly  happy  in  the  belief  that  these 
two  friends  are  treading  the  old,  but  ever  new,  path 
toward  a  noble  and  self-sacrificing  love — the  path  trod 
by  all  true  lovers  since  men  and  women  have  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes  and  seen  the  reflection  of  God's 
love  there. 

As  for  Linda  herself,  no  thought  has  yet  entered 
her  mind  that  the  man  whom  she  has  long  honored  is 
waiting  for  the  time  to  come  when  he  can  dare  to 
lay  claim  to  her  heart. 

185 


3In   tbt   ii5anta|)a!a$ 


Only  the  other  day  Fannie  received  a  letter  from 
her  uncle  saymg;_J,)iat..J-ie- purposes  coming-  to  the 
mountains  ofjlVfacon  County] for  a  week's  rest — per- 
haps longer.  JM.is  plan  is  to  go  down  through  South 
Carolina  and  Georgia,  then  come  up  the  Tallulah 
Falls  road  to(FrankliS?  Would  he  be  in  the  way  if 
he  chose  to  come  out  from  that  point  to  see  her  and 
watch  the  working  of  Linda's  plans  ?  Could  he  find 
entertainment  near?  And  would  Linda  think  it  in- 
trusion? "You  are  close  to  her.  You  know  her  as 
no  one  else,  perhaps.  Let  me  be  honest  with  you — 
I  am  hungry  for  the  sight  of  her.  Long  ago  I  schooled 
myself  to  think  of  her  without  hope,  but  now  that  she 
is  in  a  position  which  does  not  forbid  it,  I  find  myself 
turning  to  the  thought  of  her — constantly,  eagerly, 
even  hopefully.  I  am  not  a  boy.  This  has  gone 
deep,  Fannie,  and  I  shall  not  give  up  readily.  I  am 
willing  to  be  patient,  to  wait — wait,  but  meanwhile  my 
heart  shall  not  break  for  the  sight  of  her." 

Fannie's  face  was  white  and  still.  All  the  lightness 
was  gone  from  her  now, the  seriousness,  the  re- 
ligious reverence  that  lies  deep  in  her  nature  had 
come  to  the  surface.  Was  God's  providence  back  of  it 
all?  Where  could  Linda  so  surely  find  peace  as  in  the 
great  calm  of  this  steadfast  nature?  And  Harry? 
Ah!  Harry . 


END. 


186 


.^"^A  «jAr^  '{Wi'^ia^^ 


